


Brothers-in-Arms

by Soledad



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Canon - Book, Gratutious details about medieval life, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: Cuhelyn ab Einion grew up with Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth and loved him like a brother. Or perhaps more? This is a story exploring the background of "The Summer of the Danes". Story temporarily completed, although I might return to it later to work out some details better.





	1. Introduction

As said in the Summary, this is a parallel story to "The Summer of the Danes", featuring Prince Anarawd, Cuhelyn and Hywel ap Owain, mainly. Not exactly an AU - it doesn't state anything that could have been contradicted by canon, but it does look at the canon events from a different angle.

I must make it unmistakably clear that my fiction is singularly book-based. In the meantime since this story was originally written I have acquired the TV-series on DVD, but I find that the actors cast as my beloved characters don't match my imagination of them at all. No disrespect intended towards Sir Derek Jacobi, I'm sure he's a great actor, but he doesn't even come close to the visuals I have about Brother Cadfael.

If you want to know how I see the good brother, let me share a picture. It's a Benedictine brother I used to know in real life, long before I've discovered the Cadfael Chronicles, and as soon as I read the first book - which, in my case, was St. Peter's Fair - I knew how I would see Cadfael to the end of my life.

Here is my Cadfael:

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/000tr6qt/)

This story starts roughly a year before "The Summer of the Danes", also in 1143 and picks up canon events in Chapter 6.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The historic events mentioned in this chapter are as accurate as Internet research allows. I couldn’t find out which daughter of Owain Gwynedd was meant to marry Prince Anarawd, so I chose Marared (=Margaret), simply because I didn’t want to use the same names over and over again, even though Gwenllian was the one who seemed of the right age. If someone could provide any proof about the identity of the intended bride, I’d be very grateful.
> 
> The description of Cuhelyn ab Einion follows closely the one given in “The Summer of the Danes”, as he isn’t a historic character. By the others, I simply used my own imagination. Prince Anarawd is “played” by Rufus Sewell – imagine him as he appeared as Anjou in “A Knight’s Tale”, only with a beard. In my head, Cuhelyn has the face and the shape of Nick Holt, as he played Chaka in the original BSG episode “Take the Celestra”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER 01 – THE AMBUSH**

Autumn in Deheubarth, the south-western kingdom of the Welsh countries, was usually a cold, rainy and altogether unpleasant affair. In the year 1143 of our Lord, however, as Prince Anarawd ap Gruffydd, ruler of that kingdom for seven years, looked out of the small window of his bedchamber over the battlement at the Tywi Valley, found it still green and pleasing to the eye. 

Dinefwr Castle, the chief seat of the Princes of Deheubarth – kings of that country in all but by name – lay on a ridge on the northern bank of the Tywi river, with a steep droop of several hundred feet to the river, which made it an exceptionally secure place, as it was all but unattainable from that side in case of a siege. ‘Twas said that Dinefwr – according to legend first raised by Rhodri the Great himself – could only be taken with the help of treason. For there were secret underground ways cut into the ridge below it; paths that supposedly led to the river, allowing the defenders to escape.

Anarawd had never seen those underground paths himself, and if he wanted to be honest, he seriously doubted their existence. But if the legends gave people the feeling of safety, who was he to take _that_ from them? Everyone needed hope in such harsh times, when Deheubarth was constantly threatened not by a Norman invasion alone but also by the transgressions of its neighbours, and people took their hope from wherever they could. Even from legends.

There would be war again, inevitably, as soon as the civil war in England ended and the struggle between King Stephen of England and the Empress Maud was settled. Whichever of the two would emerge victorious, they would turn their attention towards the Welsh border again, and then the Welsh would have to fight for their freedom once more.

Anarawd knew that they were looking towards a bitter fight as soon as England had relative peace again, and he was prepared for it. Why, it had only been eight years since his father had allied himself with the king of Gwynedd, to take back Ceredigion, the country which had been captured by the Normans; and that Anarawd’s stepmother, Princess Gwenllian, beat them in the Battle of Llwchwr. Twas a pyrrhic victory and dearly paid with the very life of the Princess; still it gave the Welsh people hope.

But even those victories could only set back the Norman expansion in Wales. If they wanted to stop that expansion for good – or, at least, for a considerable time – the Welsh Princes needed to set aside their petty internal power struggles. Which was easier said than done, considering that Welsh law secured equal rights for all acknowledged sons, no matter the means of their birth. That law, while just and time-honoured, was also the bane of Welsh countries. Whenever a Prince built up a strong rule, his sons, born in and out of wedlock alike, often tore it apart after his death, being power-hungry and land-hungry beyond their rightful due. Small wonder that people said Welsh Princes should only be allowed to have _one_ son apiece.

Yet that, too, was easier said than done. Despite having converted to Christianity centuries ago, the old beliefs in the sacred nature of their rulers were still very much alive among the Welsh, and their Princes felt the unvoiced expectation to prove their virility by siring children (preferably sons) left, right and centre, as the virility of the King (or, in their case, the Prince) and the fertility of the land were closely connected in people’s minds. Not consciously, perhaps, but even more strongly as it had no logical foundation.

Anarawd, also born out of wedlock, ruefully admitted having fallen into this trap himself. Though he could hardly regret having set such a fine son as his Einion, now barely seven years old, into the world. But the truth remained that Einion was his _elding_ , as the Welsh called the firstborn son, and that would not bode well with any further sons he might sire with his soon-to-be-wedded wife, Owain Gwynedd’s daughter Gwenllian.

Owain ap Gruffydd, who had become the Prince of Gwynedd at about the same time as Anarawd had become that of Deheubarth, continued his father’s policy of binding other Welsh kingdoms to his by the ties of kinship. After all, the late Princess Gwenllian had been his much younger sister. Thus he had offered a renewal of alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth by marrying off his daughter to Anarawd, and Anarawd had accepted, for he knew that only a united Wales could hope to resist the Norman conquerors – and even that hope was a fairly uncertain one.

Not that accepting such an offer would have been a hardship. Like all of Owain’s children, Marared was exceedingly comely, having inherited the rich colouring of her Welsh mother, instead of Owain’s Danish fairness. Anarawd had only met her once, but could clearly remember a tall and vigorous girl, with a striding grace in her step and a braid of glossy-blue black hair as thick as her wrist, wrapped around her head like a coronet and stray curls framing her wide, white brow. She had been a pleasure to behold, her dark, radiant eyes attentive and slightly mischievous in her oval face, taking his measure with one fleeting glance that had nonetheless seemed to pierce his very heart.

She would make a worthy Princess of Deheubarth, as worthy as her Aunt Gwennlian had been. Whether she and Anarawd had any personal interest in each other was of no consequence. They would marry, for the good of their people, and arrange themselves privately. That was the way things were done in all royal families of Wales, though admittedly, the men had a great deal more freedom in such arrangements than their wives.

Anarawd sighed and returned to his bed, sliding back under the brychan to bash in the warmth of his lover’s body. Cuhelyn, always a light sleeper, always on the edge about the safety of his lord, opened an eye immediately, fully alert in the very moment he did so.

“Is it time yet?” he asked in a low voice.

Anarawd shook his head and kissed his lover’s back between the shoulder blades, making him shiver with pleasure.

“’Tis still early,” he replied. “Go back to sleep, _cariad_.”

Cuhelyn turned around in bed to face his lord, his beloved one. He was a comely young man, a couple of years younger than the Prince himself, and of true Welsh build: sturdy and compact, very trim even in his vulnerable nakedness, and dark of hair and eye. 

Those very black, intense eyes were that caught Anarawd’s interest in the first place; way back when they were still but half-grown youths, growing up together at his father’s court. The way they focussed on distance, looking _through_ what lay before that then-young boy’s gaze, be it man, beast or object, rather than _at_ them, had bewitched the _elding_ of Prince Gruffydd at once – a charm that still held him captured. It had been so strange, almost frightening to see it coming from someone still so young, and it hadn’t lost of its effect even now, ten-and-some years later.

They had grown up as brothers, for Cuhelyn’s mother Mairwen had been one of Prince Gruffydd’s many mistresses once, ere getting married off to a faithful vassal. Yet there were no blood ties between them, for Cuhelyn had been born almost four years after his mother’s marriage to Einion ap Iefan, and thus there could be no doubt about the identity of his true sire. Even less so now that he had grown up to a true younger version of his father, comely in his black and brooding fashion, and tended to a contained silence.

They had grown up as brothers, as Cuhelyn had been sent to the Prince’s court at a very tender age, with the express intention to become the guard of one of the young princes. He had been assigned to Anarawd and hadn’t left his lord’s side ever since. At first, Anarawd regretted that they were no brothers by blood, for Cuhelyn had always been closer to him than any of his siblings; shield and sword to him, and a calming shadow in the heat of the day.

Yet when he reached the age of eighteen and understood that his love for Cuhelyn was not at all like that of a brother, he was grateful for the lack of blood ties between them. As understanding as the Welsh were towards the rapidly changing passions of their Princes, incest would _not_ have been tolerated. Just as Anarawd could never have wedded Owain’s daughter, had he been a son of Princess Gwenllian, instead of being an early sprout, born out of wedlock.

For that, he was also grateful. Deheubarth _needed_ the alliance with Gwynedd, and if he had to use his own body to seal that alliance, he would do so gladly. And Cuhelyn would understand. He always did.

A calloused hand touched his lips gently, and he forgot all his worries as he saw Cuhelyn’s range of vision shorten, focus on him with almost frightening intensity and grow warm in devotion and fondness. Even the set of those long lips softened into a barely visible smile, and Anarawd felt his heart melt in his breast at the rare sight. As much as he rejoiced in his shifting dalliances with his mistresses, there was only one whom he loved fiercely and with all his heart – and that one was not a woman but this brave young warrior in his bed. His most faithful guard who served him not only with his sword but with his body as well.

Anarawd leaned over to kiss those smiling lips and Cuhelyn opened to him in that beautiful, sweet submission that always made him week with want. That such a valiant, strong-minded man would submit to him so completely and find such delight in doing all his bidding was something that always filled him with awe. Every time he realised how fortunate he was to have such devotion gifted upon him, he asked himself whether he truly deserved it – and humbly wowed never to misuse it.

“You worry too much,” murmured Cuhelyn, dragging sword-roughened hands along Anarawd’s flanks. “You are not supposed to worry when you lie with me. Have I failed to provide much-needed distraction? Then I am neglecting my duty shamefully.”

“Say no such thing!” replied the Prince, kissing his lover deeply again. “You have never been a mere distraction, and you have never failed your duties towards me, you know that. You are here to keep me sane in all this insanity. I could not rule Deheubarth without you at my side. Sometimes I believe I couldn’t even sleep but in your arms. You won’t leave me, will you? When I wed Owain’s daughter and will have to visit her in her bedchamber, you _will_ wait for me, won’t you?”

Cuhelyn smiled at him serenely. “I shall never abandon you, my brother… my Lord… my Prince. You know that… why do you feel the need to ask?”

“Sometimes even princes are in need of some reassurance,” admitted Anarawd. Then he slid his palm down the body of his lover, reaching between Cuhelyn’s legs with a confident hand. “Mmm… someone woke up eager today. Shall I do something about it?”

Cuhelyn groaned and arched into his touch, trashing his head on the flat pillow with artless honesty. “Oh yes, Sire, please!” he begged.

Only in the throes of passion did he ever call Anarawd _Sire_ – it always made the Prince weak-kneed with desire.

“Roll to your side,” he murmured, taking his lover more firmly in hand, ready to bring him to completion with a few confident strikes. "I wish to have you one more time ere we have to leave this bed.”

“You can have me any time and any way you want,” whispered Cuhelyn. “I’m yours – body, heart and soul. Use me as you please.”

“Oh, I’m about to use you, well and thorough,” said the Prince darkly, pressing into the familiar heat of his lover’s firm body. “You shan’t thank me perhaps when you’ll have to ride a horse all day, though.”

“A small price for the privilege of being yours to please,” replied Cuhelyn, melting into a boneless heap of pleasure under his assault.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When – after a copious breakfast in bed and a hot bath in the wooden tub standing behind a curtain – they emerged from the Prince’s bedchamber in the next morning, the courtyard was already full of bustle. Grooms were loading the baggage horses for the Prince and his small entourage, as well as preparing the mounts of the men who would be riding with him for the journey. There was the moisture of a brief shower on the grasses, yet the light of the early morning sun was already shining on those fine drops, and the sky above their heads was a pale, clear blue. Only a few wisps of cloud – or perhaps the last remnants of lifting mist – swirled around the golden ball of light that was rising on the east steadily.

“A most pleasing morning for a pleasant journey,” commented Anarawd, mounting his tall roan horse with the practiced ease of a man who had been riding almost since the time he had learned to walk.

Cuhelyn followed suit, hiding his wince as his backside hit the saddle. This was not the first time he had to ride out after a long night of vigorous love-making. He’d always prevailed before, and he would prevail this time, too. There was something else that bothered him, causing a discrepancy between his concerned mind and his well-loved body.

“I don’t like it that you only take three of us with you,” he said.

Anarawd rolled his eyes. “ _Cariad_ , we are not going on a war campaign! All we need to do is to cross Ceredigion and meet Hywel ap Gwyddeles at the southern border of Gwynedd. He and his people will escort us to Owain’s _llys_ safely.”

“Precisely the part of crossing Ceredigion is what worries me much,” admitted Cuhelyn. “The recent border disputes with Cadwaladr don’t make this a safe journey, even though otherwise it would indeed be a short and easy one. I do not trust Cadwaladr. He doesn’t like being merely the co-regent of Gwynedd; his hunger for land and power is insatiable, and it’s getting worse as time passes by.”

“Still, I see no reason to worry,” replied Anarawd. “Power-hungry and land-hungry as Cadwaladr might be, he is no fool. He knows how much Owain wants this marriage to make Gwynedd stronger; he would not dare to cross his brother in this matter.”

“Unless he does _not_ want Gwynedd to grow any stronger as long as Owain rules,” pointed out Cuhelyn. “But what if he wants to rule himself? He certainly can get support from England; from the Earl of Hertford, who is brother to his wife, or from her uncle, the Earl of Chester, who has grown to be almost a little king while England is torn apart by kin-strife.”

Anarawd shook his head. “The people of Gwynedd would never follow Cadwaladr the way they follow Owain,” he said. “You know that as well as I do.”

“I know,” replied Cuhelyn gravely, “but does _Cadwaladr_ know it, too? Or does he believe he would have the greatness of body and mind and ability to replace Owain at will? For if he does, then we might run into trouble on our way to Gwynedd.”

“You are seeing ghosts again,” said Anarawd in fond exasperation.

“I am not!” protested Cuhelyn. “You must not believe that just because your own people love you and Owain wants you as his ally no-one would wish to harm you.”

“I do not,” replied the Prince. “Which is why I’m taking _you_ with me. I know you’ll protect me, no matter what we might have to face.”

“With my life if I have to, and gladly so,” swore Cuhelyn fervently. “Still, _cariad_ , if for nought else but for the peace of my troubled mind, dispatch the border patrols to keep an eye on our travelling route, I beg you!”

He spoke with such urgency that in the end the Prince gave in. Cuhelyn rarely asked him for anything, and never for himself. Besides, he had a good, if overly suspicious mind in that handsome dark head of his, and his instincts usually served him well. Thus Anarawd sent a messenger before them to alert the border patrols about their coming, ordering them to draw closer to his planned route and to watch the road.

That seemed to put Cuhelyn’s mind to peace for the time being. In any case, he protested no more when the two other guards, Gwyhthyr ap Hopcyn and Morcant ap Lleu – both seasoned warriors and faithful to their Prince to a fault – joined them, and the four of them left Dinefwr Castle, heading towards Ceredigion.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Despite Cuhelyn’s dark expectations, the first day of their journey was spent without any hostile encounters. The weather remained uncommonly pleasant, save from a few showers during the night, which they spent enjoying the hospitality of a minor nobleman at two-third of the way to the border, so the rain did not bother them at all.

In the next morning, they set off early on; right at dawnbreak, in truth, for Anarawd had planned to cross Ceredigion at its narrowest expanse in one day’s ride and meet Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd, commonly known as Hywel ap Gwyddeless, son of the Irishwoman, before sunset. They were supposed to meet at Mostyn, a small fortified village in the southernmost part of Gwynedd and spend there the night ere continuing their journey to Owain Gwynedd’s court at Abor.

Cuhelyn prayed fervently to reach _that_ part of the journey undisturbed, knowing that once they had reached Mostyn, they would be safe. Although not the _ealding_ and his father’s heir, Hywel, the Poet Prince, was known as a fierce warrior, and – in spite of his youth – also a shrewd strategist who would not come to meet an honoured guest and ally at a disputed border without a suitable escort.

Yes, once they had met Hywel, they would be well-protected. Until then, though, Cuhelyn would have to look out for every oh-so-slight sign of possible trouble. Gwythyr and Morcant would do the same. They all knew this country like the back of their hand; Morcant, born and raised in Ceredigion, more so as the others. Perhaps they _would_ be fortunate, after all.

His personal misgivings notwithstanding, Cuhelyn understood all too well why his lord had chosen to travel with such a small escort. It was an appeal to Cadwaladr’s honour ( _such as it is_ , he thought dryly, having his well-founded doubts about the newly-established lord of Ceredigion) to respect the planned alliance between Deheubarth and Gwynedd. It was also a defiant attempt to show that Anarawd was _not_ afraid to ride out with only a handful of his twisted guards at his shoulder. Cowards were utterly despised among the Welsh who expected their leaders to be valiant as well as virile, and travelling with a large, heavily armed escort across a supposedly allied country would have reflected badly upon the Prince.

Yes, Cuhelyn understood his lord’s reasoning perfectly well. That did not mean that he wouldn’t hate the fact that as a result, Anarawd had to put his safety, perchance his very life at risk. Unlike his lord, Cuhelyn did not trust Cadwaladr to be _reasonable_. He had met the younger Prince of Gwynedd but once, years ago, when Owain tried to win Anarawd’s support in objecting the nomination of Bishop Meurig for the see of Bangor, and while he approved of the comeliness of Cadwaladr’s appearance, he remained doubtful about the mind housed in that handsome husk.

A few carefully placed questions seemed only to affirm his doubts. Cadwaladr had the reputation – even among his devoted followers – of being hasty, rash, wildly generous to friends yet irreconcilably bitter against enemies. Given his thinly-veiled envy for Owain’s position and his ambitions to get his hands on lands along the border that would, by right, belong to Deheubarth, Anarawd could safely count on being considered an enemy by him.

What was worse, Cadwaladr seemed to be able to wake strong devotions in his followers, due to his generosity, his fierceness in battle and the undoubtable charm of his personality. It would be easy, too easy for him to drop a veiled remark about how the Prince of Deheubarth was a serious obstacle in his way to well-deserved greatness… without actually ordering anyone to assault him. He did not _need_ to do so. His men, like Anarawd’s own ones, were faithful to the fault. It was a Welsh thing, this absolute devotion to their rulers; something very few were free of.

Riding at his lord’s right, so that he could use his better hand in case he needed to draw his sword – even though he could use both if he had to – Cuhelyn watched the profile of his Prince with silent admiration. He had never met Anarawd’s mother, as he’d died giving birth to Prince Cadell before Cuhelyn would come to the court, but he’d heard that she’d had some French blood, one of her ancestors hailing from Provance, and Anarawd, unlike his younger brother, definitely showed some of those attractive foreign traits.

He was taller than most of his Welsh countrymen, of a more slender build, with broad shoulders, a lean body and slim hips; long-limbed, light on his feet and most graceful of movement. His oval face was dominated by a pair of wide, almond-shaped hazel eyes and framed by a neatly trimmed, short beard, a dark russet brown in colour, like the thick curls clustering around his high forehead. His features were finer, more elegant than those of the average Welsh nobleman, although he did have his father’s prominent cheekbones, which made his appearance even more pleasing. Yes, he was a comely man, even if one did not see him with the eyes of love as Cuhelyn did.

Hew as also a great man and a great warrior, whose deeds – particularly the fight in which he’d slain Letard ‘Little King’, a local tyrant who had terrorised his father’s subjects while the lords of the land had been away fighting Norman invaders – were the objects of many songs. He was widely loved and admired, well beyond the borders of his own kingdom. But greatness often bred envy, and envy bred hatred; and hatred, paired with greed for land and power, was a dangerous counsellor. The further their party rode into Ceredigion, the darker Cuhelyn’s worries grew. He couldn’t wait to leave Cadwaladr’s lands safely behind them.

They rode undisturbed for the greater part of the day, and in the late afternoon they reached the verge of the wooded country that parted Gwynedd from North-Ceredigion. This was an area held dangerous in recent times, for it was known to house small bands of outlaws whom poverty and the constant warfare along the borders had driven to despair and who could roam the woods largely unhindered in a country that had been largely lordless for some time.

These were mostly desperate peasants whose small strips of land had been burnt or pillaged by one of the warring parties. Their grievances were with _all_ Welsh Princes and any lords, be they of one of the Welsh kingdoms or of foreign countries. Thus Anarawd’s party could not count on their lord’s name as a reason for being spared. However, such outlaws usually attached merchant caravans or trader troops, where there was booty to be taken. Four armed warriors with only a little food in their baggage were not a preferred target, as a rule. There was too little to have, for too much risk involved. Still, Cuhelyn was increasingly concerned, and the wary looks Gwythyr and Morcant were throwing about them all the time spoke of similar concerns.

The path upon which their party travelled was now so narrow that only two riders could go on it side by side, and even that rather uncomfortably. It also began to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook, the banks of which were broken and swampy, overgrown by willows, the roots of whose, half-bared by some kind of recent landslide or flood, reached over the water in the air like gnarled, bony fingers.

Morcant ap Lleu, who had ridden at the head of their small retinue, pulled the reins of his horse, bringing the good beast to a halt.

“This must have happened but a short time ago, perhaps during the spring floods,” he said in concern. “I cannot remember the pass being this desolate.”

“It was not,” agreed Cuhelyn, who also had travelled the route before. “But it being what it is now, I’d say this would be an excellent place for an ambush.”

“Very true,” said Anarawd with a displeased frown. “Nonetheless, we need to cross the pass; and right now, hasting through the defile as fast as possible might be the best choice.”

“It would also make us the most vulnerable for an attack,” reminded hi Cuhelyn. “We ought to be very careful while we pass.”

“I shall ride forth again,” offered Morcant, “as I know these lands best. You can follow with our lord, and Gwythyr will take the rear, protecting your backs.”

That seemed the most reasonable course of action, and thus the others gave their consent. Morcant ap Lleu therefore advanced, riding forth and crossing the brook, and taking up a defensive position as soon as he reached the other bank, to watch over the Prince’s crossing.

The precaution paid off. For as soon as Anarawd’s roan was standing on stable ground on the other side, they were assailed, in front and flank, with a ferocity to which even seasoned warriors like themselves could offer but little resistance. Which was barely surprising, as the men attacking them clearly weren’t outlaws. They were trained warriors, too, some of them wearing mail shirts and light helmets over their well-made clothes, and riding boots made fort he wealthy.

The helmets had no visors, thus Cuhelyn could see their faces well enough, even in the flurry of activity… and his heart sank, seeing his earlier suspicions affirmed.

Two of the attackers he recognised at once. He’d seen them among Cadwaladr’s lesser chiefs at the meeting of the Princes with Bishop Bernard, three years previous. He even knew their names. Siarl ap Padrig and Eurig ap Dilwyn they were called – and known to be the oldest, most faithful vassals of Cadwaladr. There could be no question about the goal of the attack, then. They were here to remove the Prince of Deheubarth from the way of Cadwaladr’s success. At heir lord’s express orders? Doubtfully. But with his unspoken consent – without the slightest doubt.

There were eight of them altogether, all armed to the teeth. Cuhelyn did not know the others, but they seemed to be men of common stock – save one. A tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man in a finely-wrought mail shirt yet bare-headed, black-haired and black-moustached, with an arrogant beak of a nose and an air of command about him. This one held back at first, as if waiting to see how the ambush would succeed, ere getting personally involved in the fighting. Whether he was the leader of the whole action or simply someone who preferred others to do the dirty work for him, Cuhelyn could not tell… nor had he the time to think about it, as they were already fighting for their very lives.

Gwythyr ap Hopcyn, who had taken the rear, was attacked and slain by two of the commoners ere he could have crossed the brook properly. Still, he had not given his life cheaply. The lance he tore from the hand of one of his attackers and hurled into the melee with his dying breath hit with deadly precision, nailing a third man to an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him and killing him at an instant.

That still left seven against three, as now the black-moustached man, seeing how they’d failed to surprise the Prince’s party, draw his sword and joined the fight. He rode with great speed up right against Anarawd, the other two vassals of Cadwaladr hot at his heels.

Desperate to hurry to his lord’s aid, Cuhelyn spurred his horse against another commoner blocking his way, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking with such black fury that he cleaved the man’s skull in two, down to the teeth. Then he gave his gelding the spurs again, racing over to where Anarawd and Morcant were fighting five other opponents.

Yet even the speed of such a fine horse as his Islwyn was not fast enough against a lance thrown by a firm hand and with a true aim – such as the lance thrown by Eurig ap Dilwyn that pierced Morcant’s heart from a distance at twenty paces mercilessly. Ramming his sword into the belly of his closest opponent with the last of his strength, Morcant ap Lleu, faithful vassal of Prince Anarawd for nearly ten years, dropped to the ground, dead, leaving his lord unprotected for the first time in his long, devout service.

Unprotected but for Cuhelyn, who was fighting like a demon, having finally reached his lord’s side. Anarawd was bleeding heavily, having received a lance wound through his left shoulder. Those cowards dared not to come within the reach of his legendary sword. Instead, they had thrown a lance at him, as they had done with Morcant, wounding him from a distance, without endangering themselves in an honest fight of man against man.

The impact of the lance had thrown the Prince from his horse and effectively lamed his left arm, so that he could not longer hold even his light shield with it to protect himself. Everything depended on Cuhelyn now, and he whirled around like a berserker, wielding his own sword with his better hand, and the one Morcant Gwythyr had dropped with the other one. Anarawd was doing the best he could with only his sword arm at his disposal, and soon another of the commoners lay slain at their feet.

But they were still outnumbered five to two, and the Prince was beginning to feel the effects of the heavy blood loss. He caught another wound in his left flank, a fairly deep one, and Cuhelyn, while dealing a powerful head strike at Morcant’s cowardly murderer, cleaving the steal helmet Eurig ap Dilwyn was wearing in two, albeit failing to kill the man at once, realised that the next strike would mean the end of Anarawd.

With a brutal blow in the gut with the pommel of his sword, he threw the dazzled Eurig from his horse, clearing the way for himself, and sprang from the saddle as well, hoping to shield the Prince with his own body if he had to. Anarawd was considerably weakened by now, his desperate attempts to fend off the swords of his would-be-murderers taking less and less effect. Save from a miracle, it was only a matter of time till they would get through his defences.

Fortunately for him, the black-moustached man was holding back again, for some reason Cuhelyn could only guess. Perhaps he wanted to enjoy the advantages resulting from the Prince of Deheubarth’s death without having actually sullied his hands with Anarawd’s blood, in case the winds of fortune would change any time, soon.

As if _that_ would make him any less of a murderer!

Siarl ap Padrig seemed to have no such concerns, though, as he advanced on the weakened Prince with his sword raised above his head. He held it with both hands, ready and willing to deal Anarawd the final blow. Catching his opponent’s sword with the cross of the one in his right hand, Cuhelyn tossed the man backwards with all his might, desperate to get to his Prince in time to fend off that killing blow.

He _almost_ got to Anarawd in time. _Almost_. He even managed to intercept the blow… alas, not with his sword. He barely felt the searing pain as Siarl ap Padrig’s blade sliced through flesh and bone in that brutal strike, severing his left arm right under the elbow and still keeping enough of its momentum to run through Anarawd’s unprotected chest, dealing him a mortal wound of which he would not recover again.

The world seemed to slow down to near-immobility around Cuhelyn. He saw Anarawd waver and fall onto his back, bleeding to death, his own severed arm, with the sword still tightly clutched in his hand, lying across the Prince’s limp body like some morbid kind of honorary sash. He could feel life pouring out of him rapidly, like the blood was pouring from the stump of his maimed arm, and a strange cold began to seep through his body, now that the heat of the battle was over.

He knew he would die in mere moments. The murderers would not leave witnesses. Not that he would care about what might happen to him.

All he cared about was the man whom he loved more than life itself. He dropped to his knees, cradling Anarawd’s face in his remaining hand, desperate to see into those beautiful eyes one last time. Anarawd was still alive – barely – and somehow found the strength in him to grant Cuhelyn that last wish.

The Prince looked up at his lover with cloudy eyes, not knowing that Cuhelyn was at death’s door himself – and _smiled_.

“ _Cariad_ ,” he whispered with a coppery sigh. “See me… avenged…”

“I shall live… for nought else,” promised Cuhelyn, well knowing how little time he had left to live but wanting his beloved to die in peace. “Go now… and rest… Wherever… you go, I… I shall follow.”

With the last ounce of strength still lingering in his maimed body, he leaned forward to kiss his lover farewell, mixing their blood in the final union of approaching death. Then he fell onto Anarawd’s dead body, lost for the world – forever, he hoped.

Thus he did not hear the affray caused by the arrival of the border patrol that had, as it turned out, come up behind them, worried about the rumours of outlaws and their Prince’s safety. With any luck, they might even have arrived in time to save him – but fate had caused them to come late. The laments and cries of their dismay over that failure were lost on Cuhelyn, too.

He did not hear the border patrol chasing away the surviving assailants. He did not feel when the stump of his left arm was bound off in the last minute to save his life, and had he known of it, he would have protested. Like the warriors of the old days, he would find it a disgrace to return alive from the field on which his lord had been slain.

Besides, what reason did he still have for living? What was he without Anarawd?

But he was blessedly unaware of all those events, and could thus not protest when the men of the border patrol put him on a litter, together with the dead body of his lord and his severed arm, and whisked him away to Mostyn in Gwynedd, for that was the closest place considered safe for him.

The bodies of Gwythyr ap Hopcyn and Morcant ap Lleu were bound onto the backs of their horses and taken with them. They bodies of their enemies were left behind for the carrion eaters. Only their weapons and any such objects that could have helped identify them were stripped and taken as proof for Owain Gwynedd and his officers.

That was the end of the promising alliance between the Welsh kingdoms of Deheubarth and Gwynedd, much to the grief of any sensible Welshman who would have loved to see their people united against any foreign threat. Yet – against his expectations – it was _not_ the end of Cuhelyn ab Einion, who would get the chance to fulfil the promise given to his Prince in his dying moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For visuals:** Prince Anarawd  
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/000wd34p/)
> 
> Cuhelyn ab Einion:  
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/0003y1cd/)
> 
> Actually, Cuhelyn is quite a bit younger in my imagination, but this was the closest-looking actor that I could find.


	3. Chapter 2 - The Avenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While his description follows the one given by Ellis Peters in “The Summer of the Danes”, Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd is a historic character. He was known as a warrior and a poet; a few of his poems have survived to the current day – one of which is briefly quoted in this chapter. It is also a historic fact that his father has sent him out with an army to avenge Prince Anarawd’s assassination and drive Cadwaladr out of his lands as a fitting punishment – which he did, very efficiently.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 02 – THE AVENGER**

Almost four days after the appointed wedding date of Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth and Princess Marared ferch Owain Gwynedd, Cuhelyn ab Einion woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare filled with fire and darkness and excruciating pain. A nightmare in which his lord was dead.

It was a bitter awakening for the young warrior, though, as he opened his eyes to a darkened room, to barely-dulled pain and to the horrible realisation not even the pain-filed haze of a poppy draught had been able to veil from his feverish mind. That there had been and would be no wedding, no alliance between the two kingdoms – and no more light in his own life, for Prince Anarawd was indeed dead.

Anarawd was dead and _he_ , whose duty it would have been to protect him with his own life if he had to, he was still alive.

He felt bitter tears of regret well up in his eyes. He let them flow freely. In his previous life he would never have allowed himself the weakness of tears, not even when he was alone, but what did that matter now? He had failed to fulfil his oath, failed to protect his lord… he’d even failed to die trying. He had no purpose, no honour, and no place in this world left. Here, at the end of all things, he could afford to be weak.

Anarawd was dead, and _he_ was but a walking corpse that had failed to die properly. 

He was nothing without Anarawd. 

Nothing.

He tried to wipe his face when the tears started to seep until the collar of his shirt… only to have white-hot pain lance through his arm when he moved it. It was also heavily bandaged and seemed… too short, somehow. And while it hurt terribly, he could not feel his hand at all.

Why could he not feel his hand?

He turned his head to the left with some effort, looking down, along his shortened arm that seemed to end a little below his elbow – and then realisation hit him like the missile of a crossbow. Not only was his lord dead, his sword-arm was gone, too.

Now he wasn’t even a man any longer.

“Nonsense, my lad,” a firm female voice replied – he must have thought out loud, apparently. “I’ve seen my fair share of maimed warriors who learned to wield the sword with the other hand. You’ll learn it, too. You’re still fairly young and you’re strong enough for it.”

He sought out the source of that voice with her eyes and found a lively old woman, short and wiry of flesh and black of eye. She was clad in good, homespun wool and wearing a long apron bound before her gown, from the belt of which small, soft leather pouches were hanging. Her greying hair, too, was bound in a cloth and braided away from her round, deeply lined face. A healer then, most likely… or the herb-mistress of the settlement, whichever border village it might be.

She came closer, supported his head with a small but surprisingly strong hand, and offered him a cup of water. Cuhelyn drank thirstily and felt his senses sharpen a little. Unfortunately, that made him feel the pain more keenly, too, but that couldn’t be helped now. He needed all his wits about him to carry out his last duty. Owain Gwynedd had to learn about what had happened to his future son-in-law, and Cuhelyn was the only man who could tell him the truth.

“Slowly, slowly,” the healer warned him, “or you shall just lose it again. You haven’t eaten anything for more than three days, and the fever has weakened you a great deal. Do you feel strong enough to speak to Hywel, though, even if just briefly?

Cuhelyn felt relief flood his battered body. Hywel was here? Then he hadn’t survived for nothing, after all. The Poet Prince would see to it that Anarawd’s cowardly murderers were punished and his death avenged.

Not trusting his voice to serve him properly, he only signalled the healer his readiness by closing his eyes briefly.

“Good lad,” she said approvingly. “I’ll let him in, then.”

She vanished from his field of vision, and he could hear her talk to someone at a little distance. Shortly thereafter the quick, sure footsteps of a young man could be heard, and Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd entered the room.

Cuhelyn had seen Hywel, the son of the Irishwoman, from afar a few times while accompanying Anarawd on his visits to Owain Gwynedd’s court, but this was the first time he could take a close look at the young prince. For young Hywel was, surely not more than twenty, yet he looked every bit the warrior he was said to be in his heavy battle armour, wearing a hauberk of chain mail that extended to his knees and to his wrists. Under the hauberk was a padded gambeson of fine wool, yet unadorned like that of any armed knight. 

His legs, too, were covered by a form of mail chausses that laced at the back but did not completely enclose the protected limbs, making thus easier for him to mount his horse or move around afoot. An excellently-made longsword was carried on a sword belt around his lean waist. The sheath was plain, unadorned, and nothing but a few gemstones worn about his fine, sturdy throat revealed his rank among his father’s people.

The integral mail coif of his hauberk was tossed back, together with the padded hood of his undergarment, revealing a shapely head, held high with easy confidence and framed by short, light reddish brown hair. The guard following him, clad similarly yet perhaps less richly and carrying a crossbow, was also holding the young prince’s steel helm. It was conical in form, also unadorned, with a nasal bar to protect the face.

Hywel gestured to the guard to stay behind and asked the healer, whose name was apparently Gwerfyl, about the well-being of her patient.

“He’s still very weak,” she replied bluntly. “Just woke up for the first time. Make it short.”

Hywel flashed her a mischievous yet amiable grin that probably melted the hearts of any woman from fifteen to fifty. “Who am I to disobey the orders of a healer?” he said; then he turned his brilliant glance at Cuhelyn, taking in his battered shape with a single look. “Are you lucid enough to talk?” he asked in the clipped tone of a born warlord.

Once again, Cuhelyn closed his eyes briefly. Hywel seemed to understand, both his willingness and that he was still too wary for coherent speech, for he began to ask such questions as could be answered either with a simple Yes or No, or with the simplest of hand gestures.

“How many guards did your lord take with him upon leaving Dinefwr Castle?” he asked.

Cuhelyn raised three fingers, and Hywel nodded.

“We found the other two… recognised them by Anarawd’s coat-of-arms they wore on their breasts. And you were the only survivor?”

Cuhelyn nodded weakly. “Found… in the last moment,” he whispered.

“What about your attackers?” continued Hywel. “How many of them were there? We found a few dead, but according to the traces, there had to be more of them.”

Cuhelyn rose five fingers, then three. He no longer had enough fingers to show the right number, but Hywel understood him well enough.

“Four dead, four escaped,” murmured the young prince, “and we found no sign on them to figure out aught about their alliances. Have you recognised any of them?”

“Two,” whispered Cuhelyn. “Two I recognised… The other two… I shall know if I see them. They… must pay dearly.”

“They will,” promised Hywel, with a dark glint in his bright eyes. “But who were the two you recognised? Do you have any names for me?”

Cuhelyn made a tiny nod. “Their names… Siarl ap Padrig and… Eurig… Eurig….”

“Eurig ap Dilwyn," the prince finished for him grimly. The names were apparently well known to him. “Two of Cadwaladr’s lesser chiefs. Also was Cadwaladr behind this cowardly action. Father shan’t be pleased.”

Cuhelyn laughed weakly, despite his pain, despite his hopeless situation. All knew that while Owain Gwynedd loved his errant brother and tended to forgive him for many things, _this_ would not be one of those things; and that the Prince of Gwynedd was _very_ good at making his displeasure eminently clear. Cadwaladr and his handlangers would pay dearly for their abominable deed.

Not that any amount of vengeance could make Anarawd alive again. But at least he _would_ be avenged.

“They _must_ pay,” he whispered again. “It was my lord’s… dying wish.”

“A wish I shall honour,” said Hywel. “That is what I am here for. My father sent me with an army to investigate the death of Prince Anarawd and to punish his murderers. I do not intend to disappoint him – or to allow Cadwaladr the mistaken belief that he can do as he pleases, going against Father’s labours to make peace in this country.”

He rose from his chair gracefully. “I shall send a message to Anglesey now, where my father is currently holding court. Then I shall teach my dear uncle a lesson he won’t easily forget. As for you… what is your name?”

“Cuhelyn… ab Einion,” whispered the wounded.

Hywel seemed to recognise his name. “Anarawd’s foster brother and shield, are you not?” he asked with respect. “I have heard of you, Cuhelyn ab Einion, I could just never put a face to the name in my mind. I only wish we had met under different circumstance – but this is not the end of things yet. See to it that you heal and gain back your strength. I shall have need of you when I am done with my uncle.”

“What good could… a one-armed man be… for you?” asked Cuhelyn bitterly.

“Two of your lord’s murderers have still no names,” replied Hywel. “You say, though, that you know their faces; and _that_ is what I shall need when the day of reckoning comes.”

He leaned over Cuhelyn and kissed him on the brow; in the manner a king would kiss a faithful vassal.

“Rest and heal now, Cuhelyn,” he said. “We shall speak more upon my return. I hope I shall find you in a better shape.”

He snapped his fingers, and the guard came forth, handing him the helm. Hywel covered his head with hood and coif and put on the helm, and from this close Cuhelyn could see that it wasn’t completely unadorned, after all. A string of plaited gold, about the width of a finger, framed the cut made for the eyes and ran down the nasal piece. Simple yet elegant in fashion, the helm _did_ show that its wearer was no common soldier.

With a last, parting look at the maimed man on the bed, Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd left the little cottage of the healer Gwerfyl to avenge the Prince of Deheubarth who would have become husband to his sister Marared.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The following days were not very different from each other. In truth, they were so similar that Cuhelyn soon lost count of time again. He still slept a lot, mostly due to the poppy syrup given him to dull his pain, and when he _was_ awake, his mind was fuzzy from all that drugged sleep.

The widow Gwerfyl, who – as he learned – was indeed both the midwife and the herb-mistress of the little settlement and thus the closest thing the people here had to a competent healer, took good care of him. He was given plenty of fluids to compensate for the heavy blood loss he had suffered, mostly in the form of _cawl_ , which meant a kind of meat broth in these lands, rather than soup like in other parts of the country; or herbal teas, or simply water. As he began to eat solid food again, the widow made him light dishes like _lymru_ or tinker’s cakes. 

She seemed to consider him very lucky for getting away with his life, even if badly wounded. If she only knew how much he wished he had not! The mere thought of going on with his life – such as it could be with only one arm – without Anarawd in it made him wish to take all the poppy syrup he could get his remaining hand on and never wake up again.

But he could not give up, not yet. Anarawd had asked him with his last breath to see him avenged, and he would do it. Even if it meant to live out his life as a lowly servant at Owain Gwynedd’s _llys_ … or as a beggar on the roadside. He only wished there would be more detailed news about Hywel’s campaign against his errand uncle.

For despite the pain-filled monotony of his days, _some_ news did reach Cuhelyn, after all. The serving girls who helped the old healer taking care of him (due to Hywel’s express orders, it seemed) chatted a good deal among themselves when they thought him asleep. And as all seemed to hold the world of their young prince, Hywel ab Owain was the most common subject of their chatter.

And so Cuhelyn had come to learn that in outraged justice, Owain Gwynedd had sent his son to drive Cadwaladr bodily out of every furlong of land he had to his name in North Ceredigion, as retaliation for his unproven yet well suspected part in the assassination of Anarawd – and that Hywel accomplished his task with relish and efficiency.

“He wafted his army across the Aeron like an avenging angel,” one of the girls explained, her dark eyes shining with admiration and excitement, “and drove Cadwaladr headlong out of Ceredigion, with his castle of Llanbadarn in flames behind him.”

“Not a toehold of land left to Cadwaladr in Wales,” another one added, “and Hywel has done this without as much as ruffling his curls.”

“And him looking barely old enough to bear arms at all!” commented the widow Gwerfyl contently. “A shame, truly, that he isn’t the _elding_ and Owain’s heir. As much as our Prince loves his firstborn, and I doubt not for a moment that young Rhun is worth his father’s love, Gwynedd would do best under Hywel’s leadership. That young fellow was born to rule, mark my words!”

“A poet and bard as well as a warrior,” enthused another girl. “Truly, no Prince could wish for a better son!”

Behind his closed eyelids, Cuhelyn forced back the tears that threatened to come to the surface. For hadn’t his lord, too, been called the best son a Prince could have wished for? And now Anarawd was dead and would soon be forgotten – for that was the way of things in this thankless world – and no amount of vengeance could bring him back again.

Cuhelyn willed himself to go back to sleep. Perchance if he tried hard enough, he wouldn’t wake up the next time.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Yet apparently, such relief was not granted to him – at least not as long as he hadn’t fulfilled his lord’s dying wish. When he came to again, he woke up to the sound of a harp and a light, pleasant baritone singing to it.

_Karafy gaer wennglaer o du gwennylan;  
myn yd gar gwyldec gweled gwylan  
yd garwny uyned, kenym cared yn rwy.  
Ry eitun ouwy y ar veingann  
y edrtch uy chwaer chwerthin egwan,  
y adrawt caru, can doeth yn rann._ (1)

Opening his bleary eyes, Cuhelyn looked around to find the source of the music, and soon he spotted Hywel ab Owain, sitting on a stool and playing a small, hand-held harp. He no longer wore his armour; instead, he was clad like a courtier of his father’s court: in a fine linen shirt and long, blue hose, over which he wore a fitted tunic of heavy, dark blue silk, lined with _vair_ – the fur of the squirrel – in a striped pattern of white and soft blue-grey. It was a fairly expensive piece of clothing, but a royal prince with lands to his name could clearly afford it.

As he was sitting there, curly head bent over the harp, ‘twas hard to imagine that he was the same young warlord who’d just won a minor war.

“A beautiful song,” said Cuhelyn, surprised that his voice was at once serving him so well. “One of your own, I deem.”

Hywel looked up and smiled. “It is indeed. How do you feel?”

“Better,” replied Cuhelyn, realising that it was true. “The pain is… bearable. I wonder why they keep giving me the poppy.”

“I asked Mistress Gwerfyl to do so,” Hywel admitted. “I feared you’d do something… _foolish_ , had they not kept you sleeping most of the time.”

Cuhelyn blinked a few times in confusion… then he understood. Hywel had been afraid that he might take his own life, out of despair – or out of some old-fashioned sense of honour. In the olden days death, even by one’s own hand, would have been preferable to lifelong infamy and shame due to failing to protect one’s lord, and some warriors still lived by that old codex. In truth, Cuhelyn himself did it, too. Had Anarawd not asked him to be the harbinger of vengeance, he _would_ have taken his own life. The way things were, though, that choice stood not open for him.

“You need not to fear for me,” he said. “As long as one of my lord’s murderers is alive, I shall not give up on my life.”

“That is one of the things I wanted to speak of with you,” answered Hywel. “We’ve captured a few of Cadwaladr’s lesser chiefs and their men. They are on their way to my father’s court to answer for their deeds, assuming they had any part in Prince Anarawd’s death. The two _you_ have recognised are dead already. Siarl ap Padrig fell in the battle for Llanbadarn Castle and Eurig ap Dilwyn died from the wound you had dealt him during the attack at the ford. I was wondering, though, if you were strong enough to come to Anglesey with me. Perchance you can recognise more of the attackers among the captives.”

“If I am needed, I shall go,” said Cuhelyn without thinking.

But Hywel shook his head. “I know you are willing,” he said. “But it has been scarcely two weeks since the ambush. You shan’t be able to make the long journey to Anglesey – unless we take you with us in a litter, hung between two horses. You are still quite weak.”

The thought of being carried into Owain Gwynedd’s _llys_ in a litter, like a dead animal, instead of sitting erect in his own saddle appalled Cuhelyn at first. No self-respecting warrior would do such a thing, unless they were already dead. A man’s face was half his armour, and losing face was one of the worst things that could happen to a Welsh warrior.

Yet after the first moment of quiet outrage he realised that he was no warrior any longer – just a crippled man whose fate would depend on the mercy of others for the rest of his life. Owain Gwynedd would wish to hold court as soon as the captives arrived. And if he, Cuhelyn wasn’t there, Anarawd’s murderers might get away unpunished. He could not allow that. Until Anarawd’s death was avenged, he still remained in the service of his dead lord. Afterwards… afterwards nothing would count anymore.

“I… I’ll take the litter,” he whispered, stomping down his pride ruthlessly.

Hywel gave him a compassionate look. He was a warrior, too; he had to know how much willpower it had taken Cuhelyn to give in like that.

“Do you wish me to send messages to your kin?” he then asked. "They must be worried about you."

Cuhelyn shook his head. “I have no kin left,” he said. “My parents are dead, and as for my brother… I have been as good as dead for him for years. I have left all our lands to him when I took the shield-oath… made myself free from all family obligations to be able to serve my lord without any obstacles. I never thought I would leave a battle alive after he’d fallen – now I have neither family, nor honour. I am alone.”

 _I am alone_ – this was the worst fate among the Welsh, where the whole life was built along family lines. Without kin, a man could find no place in the Welsh countries. After Anarawd’s death, whom he’d failed to protect, Cuhelyn was more or less an outcast… for who would take into his service a failed warrior, even if he weren’t one-armed, who had already allowed _one_ lord to be killed?

Hywel knew this all too well, and that was one of the reasons why he’d been concerned about Cuhelyn. However, he also knew that the young man hadn’t been amiss in his effort to protect his lord … and that Cuhelyn might prove useful in more than just in pointing out Anarawd’s murderers.

“You are _not_ alone,” he said forcefully. “You are _my_ responsibility now, and I shall see into it that you find a place for yourself in Gwynedd – if you do not wish to return to Deheubarth, that is.”

“I do not,” replied Cuhelyn with a sigh. “My lord and his brothers got along surprisingly amiably as Welsh Princes go, but they would _not_ want me there. In their eyes I shall always remain a failure.”

“Well, then,” said Hywel brightly, “I shall take you home with me.”

Cuhelyn smiled bitterly. _Home_ , that had always meant for him the place where Anarawd would be. How could he ever think of any place as _home_ again, now that Anarawd was gone? But he said nothing. That would not have been courteous towards Hywel who hadn’t shown him aught but generosity. If he had to live for a while yet, he needed a place to stay, and Hywel was offering him just that. Refusing the offer would not only be rude but foolish as well.

“As you wish, my prince,” was all that he would answer.

Hywel, though, shook his head. “ _Your_ prince will always remain Anarawd. I respect that. He was more than worthy such devotion as you are said to have shown him all your life. I _hope_ you will find me a worthy prince, too, once you know me better, but even if you do not, I shall always hold my hand above you. Men as faithful as you have become scarce in these times. The few that are still here deserve to be cherished.”

There was nought Cuhelyn could have answered to _that_ ; less so as he did not feel all that respectable, himself. But if Hywel wanted to protect him, he would gratefully accept. He _needed_ protection in his current state. Anarawd’s murderers would learn soon enough that he had not died with the others and might try to correct their mistake. Besides, he no longer had a place within Deheubarth, now that his lord was dead. Until he’d done his last duty to him, he would accept Hywel’s protection.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hywel’s cortege mustered in the dawn, in a morning that was surprisingly clear, with a pale blue sky and nearly no clouds upon it. When Cuhelyn emerged from the healer’s little cottage that he had not left once during his stay in Mostyn, the tents of Hywel’s army along the hillside above the little village were already folded and loaded onto the pack horses. Warriors and grooms were hurrying to perform their tasks, manservants were shrilling to each other above the general noise of a busy morning – ‘twas a well-ordered chaos, as always when a large group of men was about to get on their way.

He stood there for a while, watching the bustle of preparations for departure with a heavy heart. He was about to leave behind everything he knew and head off to a new life among strangers… even though generous ones. He only hoped he’d be able to find a way to earn his keeping. ‘Twas unbecoming of a warrior, even of a maimed one, to live off the alms of his benefactors.

Hywel walked up to him to see if he was ready to leave. The young prince wore his mail shirt and helm once again – they ought to be safe within his father’s kingdom, but one could not foresee what resentful followers of Cadwaladr might have tried in their anger and grief. After having asked about Cuhelyn’s well-being, he whistled to the grooms, and those led by two horses, between which a litter was fastened for the wounded man to travel.

“We have found the horses of your party,” he said, “and sent them back to Dinefwr under guard – save your own. That one we shall take with us, so that you may ride into my father’s _llys_ on your own, should you find the strength in you to do so.”

Cuhelyn thanked him for such consideration. He also thanked Mistress Gwerfyl for taking such good care of him; then he allowed the grooms to help him into the litter. _Perhaps_ he could have climbed in alone – but there was no reason to overtask himself. He would need his strength later.

Hywel seemed to agree with his decision, for he stepped up to his own horse, and as he reached for bridle and stirrup, so did the whole cortege. They all swung aloft into the saddle, and as Hywel rode out of the village, his officers fell into neat order about them, lining Cuhelyn’s litter on both flanks, the rest of their men following them, well-ordered as it could be expected from a victorious army.

Cuhelyn thought that they would make due west, to the sea and cross over to the Isle of Anglesey at Carnarvon, which lay opposite Owain Gwynedd’s _llys_ at Abermenai. Instead, they were bearing somewhat northwards, through Snowdonia, which was a swift though not always easy path – not to mention that it did _not_ lead to Anglesey.

“True enough,” Hywel laughed when Cuhelyn pointed this out during one of their rests. “That is because we are not going to Abermenai. My father has heard tidings about the Earl of Chester that made him move the court closer to the English border. By the time we have crossed the Pass of Bwlch y Ddeufaen, he, too, will have reached Aber – and that is where we are to meet him.”

After that nightly rest, the track they had been following began to rise gradually, keeping company with a little tributary of the River Conwy, until they reached the moorland and an ancient yet still perceptive causeway, laid with stones and cushioned with rough grass. ‘Twas an old Roman road, wide enough for a column of men marching six abreast or three horsemen in line. A road made for the single purpose of moving a great number of men, indeed whole armies, from one stronghold to another, as quickly as possible.

It headed directly to a sheer barrier of mountains that seemed utterly impenetrable – unless one knew of the gate at the Pass of Bwlch y Ddeufaen. Once they passed that gate, they would soon begin to descend among the hills on the other side, and in another day or two, depending on their speed, they would reach Owain Gwynedd’s royal seat at Aber.

Cuhelyn wasn’t quite sure whether he felt anticipation or dread by that thought. One thing was certain: once he’d given testimony and – hopefully – pointed out the rest of Anarawd’s murderers, his life as he had known it would irrevocably end. Whether he would find the strength to begin a new one was a question he still could not quite answer – not even for himself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The high stockade of Owain Gwynedd’s royal seat and _tref_ of Aber lay in the middle between salt marshes on the one side and terraced green hills on the other one, within an hour’s ride from the old Roman road. As soon as the porters and the guards at the gates had seen Hywel’s banners flattering on the road, cries and the ringing of trumpets arose from within, and the household came a-running to welcome the young prince home as it was the due of a victorious warlord.

Cuhelyn had only seen Aber fleetingly before, and now he had to admit that it was an impressive sight. While not one of the ancient stone fortresses, it was a walled town of considerable age, with stables, armoury and hall, an entire array of guest houses and various other outbuildings lining the walls of the great court of Owain’s _maenol_. It was clearly a well-organized household. Grooms surged out of the stables to take care of the horses. Squires came to offer their young prince refreshments. Everyone was laughing and talking excitedly, outdoing each other in greeting the returning hero.

Hywel was the first out of the saddle, and went straight to the great timber hall where the Prince of Gwynedd stood on the top of the stairs in his royal person, accompanied by the rest of his family. Owain embraced his returned son with unmistakable pride and affection that was heart-warming to see, and Hywel respectfully kissed the hand of the lady on his father’s side. Cuhelyn knew from hearsay that this was not his mother Pyfog, but Princess Gwladys ferch Llywarch of Arwystli in Central Wales, whom Owain had married for dynastic reasons some ten or so years ago. Still, they seemed to get along amiably enough.

Hywel then returned to Cuhelyn, who had indeed come this last stretch of the way on the back of his own horse and took his bride with his own princely hand.

“You must be tired,” he said, “so let us help you. I shall arrange you a guest chamber and send over one of the healers to take a look at your wounds.”

Cuhelyn nodded gratefully. Now that he’d given his warrior status the due honour of arriving in the proper way, refusing help that he so sorely needed would have been unreasonable indeed. So he allowed Owain’s servants to lift him off the saddle and more carry than lead him into a passage between the rear end of the Great Hall and the long timber range of the storehouse and the armoury. There, in the shelter of the outer wall a number of small rooms were built beneath the watch-platform, shadowed deeply by its overhang: the guest chambers.

Within, the guest chamber was small yet clean and well-ordered, the bed covered with a brychan and a table standing next to the door for the guest’s belongings. As Cuhelyn owned nought but a horse, his weapons and a spare set of clothing, this was even more than he would need.

“’Tis not the guest chamber of a stone keep,” said Hywel with an apologetic shrug, “but I hope it will do ‘til we find you some permanent lodgings.”

“It has everything I could wish for,” replied Cuhelyn. “Unless you can arrange a bath for me, that is.”

“Certainly; I am in dire need of one myself,” said Hywel, laughing. “Now, if I know my father, there will be a feast tonight. You are welcome to join; but if you’d wish to rest instead, we’d understand and take no offence.”

“Then I think I would prefer to rest,” admitted Cuhelyn. “The long journey has taken its toll on me; and I’m still not comfortable with strangers glaring at my arm… or what is left of it.”

“I can see why; although there is no reason to be ashamed of your injury,” said Hywel.

“I am not _ashamed_ ,” corrected Cuhelyn. “I am _uncomfortable_. I need time to get used to it myself – it has been less than a month that I’ve lost it.”

Hywel nodded. “All will understand that. Feel free to remain here for the evening, then. However, my father would wish to speak to you once you have rested a little, I deem. He… he valued Anarawd very much – like everyone else.”

“Save those who murdered him for standing in their lord’s way,” answered Cuhelyn drily. “But I shall gladly speak to Prince Owain whenever he calls me before his presence. My lord respected him very much, and I... I shall be forever in his debt for sending you to avenge his death.”

“Good,” said Hywel. “Try to find some rest. I shall send the healer first, and then the servants with the bath. For now, you’re our honoured guest. Everything else can wait ‘til you’ve regained some of your strength.”

With that, he left to go after his own business. Some time later an elderly healer came to examine Cuhelyn’s stump and found it healing well enough, albeit just a bit inflamed. He gave him a salve to prevent infection and a draught against fever, then re-bandaged the maimed limb and left, promising to return on the next day.

Barely had the leader gone, two maidservants came with a wooden tub and began to fill it with hot water. Despite Cuhelyn’s protests, they deftly undressed him and washed him from head to toe as if he were but a child. When he was dressed again – in clean clothes that they had brought for him and that suited him surprisingly well – other servants came to take the tub away, and the girls brought him something to eat.

Cuhelyn was not truly hungry, but _crempog_ spread with good, salty butter and sugar was not something he could ever resist. So he ate a few wedges, drank a tankard of mead, and then lay down on his bed obediently to rest until the Prince of Gwynedd would find the time to speak to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I love a bright fort on a shining slope,  
> Where a fair, shy girl loves watching gulls.  
> I'd like to go, though I get no great love,  
> On a longed-for visit on a slender white horse  
> To seek my love of the quiet laughter,  
> To recite love, since it's come my way.
> 
> "Awdl V" (Ode 5), line 1; translation from Gwyn Williams (trans.) Welsh Poems, 6th Century to 1600 (London: Faber & Faber, 1973) p. 43.


	4. Chapter 3 - The Prince's Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While his description follows the one given by Ellis Peters in “The Summer of the Danes”, Owain Gwynedd is a historic character. So are his sons, daughters and wife featuring in this chapter. The various canon characters are borrowed from “Dead Man’s Ransom” and “The Summer of the Danes”, respectively.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 03 – THE PRINCE'S JUSTICE**

Prince Owain allowed him two full days of rest, for which Cuhelyn was grateful, finding himself more exhausted from the long journey than he would have expected. He must have been more weakened than he’d thought to be, after all. On the third day, however, Hywel told him that he was to appear in Owain’s hall for supper, after which, he said, justice will be had – for the prisoners, taken from Cadwaladr’s burned caste, to see if they had any part in the murdering of Prince Anarawd.

“I have taken the liberty to order some clothes for you,” he added, “for the ones you still own are in no way suitable for appearing before the court. Will you accept them?”

Cuhelyn nodded his consent. He had no particular interest in courtly clothes but understood that he owed the Prince the courtesy. An hour later servants came and brought him a good linen tunic and breeches, an over-tunic of fine, dark wool and his riding boots that had been cleaned and polished somewhen in the recent days. One of the baggy sleeves of the tunic had been removed, so that he would be able to pull his still heavily bandaged stump through the opening. The short, wide sleeves of the over-tunic caused him no problems, but he glanced at his maimed arm with some dismay. It was still way too exposed for his taste.

“Hywel has thought about that, too,” the servant produced a fine linen cloth, drew it over the stump like a glove and secured it with a thin silver bracelet above the elbow. Then he eyed his handiwork and nodded contentedly. “It looks good enough.”

Cuhelyn had to admit that the man was right. Thanks to this arrangement, he felt less… naked, even thought there would be dozens, perchance hundreds of people staring at his shortened arm. The servant fastened his cloak upon his good shoulder with the golden pin found among his things – the one inherited from his late father – and then they were ready to go before the Prince.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The tables in Owain’s hall were spread and the central fire was burning bright, sending up fragrant wood-smoke to the blackened roof, as they entered through the torch-lit front door. The Prince of Gwynedd presided at the main table, his wife - a lithe, dark-haired Welshwoman wearing a richly embroidered bliaut in dark blue - on his left (the heart-side), and his grown sons on his right.

This was not Cuhelyn’s first encounter with Owain Gwynedd; but even though their previous meetings had been fleeting, Owain was not a man to be easily forgotten. He might not make much ado about state and ceremony, but that was because he did not _need_ to do so; not with the obvious royalty he bore about his person.

He was barely forty years old, in his vigorous prime; very tall for a Welshman, and fair-haired, after his grandmother Ragnhild, of the Danish kingdom of Dublin. With his clear, blue eyes and short-trimmed golden beard he looked next to his wife like the sunlit day compared with a moonless night. They made a beautiful couple.

On his right, between him and Hywel sat his _elding_ , Prince Rhun; a young man of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three of age, with his father’s flaxen hair deepened into pure gold and Owain’s impressive male comeliness refined into almost startling beauty. He was tall and erect and carried himself with the grace of an athlete, his eyes of the same brilliant northern blue as Owain’s. 

Cuhelyn knew that the prince was born out of wedlock, just like Hywel - and from the same Irishwoman, too. ‘Twas also widely told that Rhun was the apple of their father’s eye, who’d watch over him with anxious love. Cuhelyn wondered what Princess Gwladys would think about the radiant and serene young prince who was holding the position she’d certainly wish for her own sons: that of the _elding_ and the heir of his father.

Hywel sat next to his brother, the likeness to his father clear to be seen, though he was of darker colouring and, unlike Rhun, did not have the height of their sire. Nonetheless, he was clearly signed with his father’s image and apparently had inherited a great deal of Owain’s open and quick mind, his strong will and his abilities both as a leader of men and as a warlord.

It seemed strange to Cuhelyn that while Hywel, right upon reaching manhood, had been set up honourably in South Ceredigion (and would now, after his uncle’s fall, possess the whole of it), Owain would keep his _elding_ with him all the time. Could it be that while he loved Rhun more than any of his other children, the Prince had recognised Hywel’s abilities and come to lean more heavily on him in all things that truly counted? And if that _was_ so, how might Hywel feel about the matter? Few Welsh princes went on so amiably with their brothers as Anarawd had with his.

Suppressing the ever-present pain over the loss of his lord and beloved with a routine developed during the recent weeks, Cuhelyn glanced at the girl who would have become Anarawd’s wife, sitting on Princess Gwladys’ side. A year or two younger than Hywel, Marared was as fiercely beautiful as Cuhelyn remembered her to be, richly clad in a bliaut of dark, burgundy red, her dark hair artfully braided and wrapped around her graceful head like a diadem. 

Strong-willed, shrewd-minded and level-headed she was said to be; she would have made a worthy Princess of Deheubarth. She’d have been worthy of Anarawd. Between the two of them, they could have forged a lasting alliance, making the Welsh countries strong enough to withstand both England and the Prince of Powys.

A dream that was now lost forever, due to Cadwaladr’s greed.

Cuhelyn was startled out of his thoughts by Hywel, who rose from his seat and came to lead him before his father.

“My lord,” said Hywel formally, bending a knee to Owain, “here is the witness I have promised you: Cuhelyn ab Einion, shield to Prince Anarawd and a man of his guard… the only one who got away with his life hanging on a thread from the cowardly ambush that has taken his lord’s life. He has seen them all and can point at those who had been part of it yet were not found so far.”

Owain nodded at Cuhelyn, not unkindly, yet clearly eager to be done with the whole unfortunate affair.

“You are welcome in my _llys_ , Cuhelyn ab Einion,” he said gravely, “and should you be able to point out any of your lord’s murderers, we would be grateful. Yet meting out justice on an early stomach in unpleasant, so let us have supper first and deal with the prisoners afterwards. Hywel, make place for Cuhelyn ab Einion at our table.”

“I already have,” answered Hywel with a brilliant flash of a smile and led Cuhelyn to the empty seat on his right. Cuhelyn felt terribly uncomfortable. Certainly, he had usually sat at Anarawd’s’ table, and at the Prince’s side at that most of the time; but that had been different. As Anarawd’s shield, he’d had a unique status in Deheubarth. No-one in Dynefwr Castle would question his right to sit with the royal family.

Here, he had no status at all. He was here on mere sufferance, and most likely only as long as he had any useful knowledge. Here, he was _nothing_. He had not ties of kinship, nor any oath of fealty to bind him to Owain’s family. Neither would he have the chance to win a new position in Owain’s court. He was a failed guard _and_ a crippled man, of no use for any-one.

Still, he had one remaining duty towards his late lord: to see Anarawd’s murderers hung and his death avenged. For that, he would endure the pitying looks in the court of Gwynedd as long as he had to. After that, nothing would truly count any longer.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On a normal evening, there would have been harping and singing in the hall after supper, more so with Hywel present; and also drinking, jesting and even horseplay among the young nobles outside the hall. This, however, was an evening on which judgement was to be spoken. Therefore, right after they had finished eating, the tables were carried out and the seats rearranged, so that the former table neighbours were now sitting in rows along the length of the hall, and Owain alone sat upon his great chair, facing the embrace, with his most trusted allies standing left and right from his seat.

“Bring in the prisoners,” he ordered.

Iefan ap Griffri, the chief of the Prince’s guards, gestured to four young noblemen under his command, and together they escorted about a dozen men into the hall, all between twenty-five and fifty years of age, by the sight of them. For the time being, Owain had them stand near the entrance, under armed guard. Due to the smoke of the torches that had filled the hall by then, Cuhelyn could not see the individual faces all too clearly, but that did not worry him much. He would get his chance to take a closer look, of that he was certain. That was the very reason of him being there, after all.

Yet for now Owain wanted him to give chapter and verse about Anarawd’s assassination, for everyone present to know in minute detail what kind of crime was being judged today. First of all, he asked questions about Cuhelyn’s person, as few in his court had met him before.

“As we already know your name,” he said, “all you need to tell us is your status in Deheubarth.”

“I am a younger son of my father,” answered Cuhelyn readily, “and as such I was sent to the royal _llys_ to become a man in my Prince’s guard. And that is what I used to be,” he added darkly, “ere I would disgrace myself by returning alive from the field on which my lord was slain.”

“You did not truly _return_ on your own,” reminded him Hywel “You were found on the brink of death, taken to a healer and carefully nursed back to health… such as it is in these days. For you did not _return_ as a whole; after all, you have left your sword-arm lying over Anarawd’s body, the sword still in your hand, or so the men of the border patrol told me.”

That was very true, of course, and not having anything to add, Cuhelyn simply nodded.

“You were close to your Prince?” asked Owain, more for the sake of the others, as Anarawd had told him the truth about his shield-brother.

“I grew up with him,” answered Cuhelyn simply. “He was my foster brother, and I loved him. Shield and sword I was to him, and he trusted me with his life. Perchance he trusted me with more than I could give; or else he would be alive today, and I would be dead. I failed him.”

“’Tis not what I have heard,” said Owain. “How many, did you say, were with Anarawd on that fateful day?”

“Only three of us,” replied Cuhelyn. “’Twas supposed to be a short journey and a simple one, across the lands of one whom my lord considered an ally. We expected no evil; and taking a bigger escort would have shown distrust, or so my lord said. I tried to argue with him, but he would not listen.”

“He must have had his reasons,” said Owain.

“Oh, he had; and sound ones at that,” allowed Cuhelyn. “In the end, though, he was proved wrong and I was proved right… Never in my life have I wished so much to be proven wrong! Alas, it was not so,

“How many attackers?” asked Einion ab Ithel, a nobleman who ranked second only to Owain’s own _penteleu_ ; a big, muscular man in his forties, bearded, with long moustaches and a thick mane of brown hair. His clothing clearly spoke of his wealth and importance.

“Eight of them,” answered Cuhelyn, “all more heavily armed than us, protected by helmets and mail shirts. _And_ they set up their trap well. We were crossing a brook near the border when they attacked us from all sides. They slew Gwythyr ap Hopcyn, two against one, ere he could have crossed and found sure footing for his horse. I was separated from my lord, and they slew Morcant ap Lleu with a lance thrown from afar ere I could reach his side. My lord had been wounded by another lance by then, his shield-arm rendered useless. I slew Eurig ap Dilwyn, Morcant’s murderer, but there were still five of them against the two of us, and my lord greatly weakened by the heavy blood loss.”

“Do you remember who was the one who slew your Prince?” asked Tudur ap Rhys, the lord of Tregeirog in Cynllaith; a man of Powys but a close friend and steadfast ally of Owain. He was short and square, powerfully built like a stone tower, with a thick thatch of brown hair barely touched by grey, and a loud, melodious voice that was, however, shrill with outrage right now.

Cuhelyn nodded. “It was Siarl ap Padrig. I named him to Hywel, and he has paid, I’m told.”

“What about the others?” inquired Griffith ap Meilyr, a nobleman who ranked high among Owain’s officers, as his wife was distant kin to the Prince. “Did you recognize any of them?”

Cuhelyn shook his head. “Five of them were clearly commoners: men-at-arms, acting on their masters’ orders. Three of them we have slain in the fight, together with Eurig ap Dilwyn. Two of them managed to escape when our border patrol heard the affray and came to our aid; and so did the third nobleman whom I deem to be the leader and the orchestrator of the whole attack. For he held back, most of the time, as if watching the others carrying out their orders.”

“Yet him you do not know by name, do you?” asked Owain.

“Nay; neither him, nor the two commoners who got away,” admitted Cuhelyn. “But I keep their faces in mind, for the day when I see them again and hear the names that go with the faces.”

“Perhaps you will get the chance to do so now,” said Owain grimly. “I want those who had any part in Prince Anarawd’s murder to pay dearly. For not only did they slay an innocent man, crossing their land in good faith; they also destroyed our best hope to forge a strong alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth, and thus might have taken our last chance against England. ‘Tis something I shall not suffer kindly.”

“In the name of my lord whose dying wish was to see him avenged, I thank you,” said Cuhelyn with a deep bow. 

Hywel grabbed his good arm when he came up from the bow dizzy and sweating. It disgusted him to be so weak but he tried not to show it. He still had a purpose here, and showing weakness would have been a mistake.

Owain nodded grimly and gestured to Iefan ap Griffri to lead the prisoners before him, one by one.

“If one of them seems familiar to you, speak up,” he said to Cuhelyn, “so that we can separate him from the others for further questioning.”

Cuhelyn nodded his understanding, bracing himself for the possibility to see eye to eye with his lord’s murderers. Based on their rich clothing, some of them clearly had been Cadwaladr’s lesser chiefs; others wore the rough garb of common men-at-arms. Still, the faces were obscured from his view by the smoke; he felt great urge to hurry over to them and glare into their eyes but knew better than behave in such an uncourtly manner.

The first one led before Owain’s presence was a young man of Cuhelyn’s own age. They were even quite alike in build and colouring, although Cadwaladr’s man was a bit thinner in feature and perhaps somewhat longer in the reach, if those long arms, folded defiantly across his chest, were of any indication. He was clad in the fashion of the lesser nobility of Ceredigion, wearing a knee-length tunic over chausses and riding boots, as well as a sleeveless surcoat of black leather, fastened with silver clasps on the front and girdled by a weapons belt, now without a scabbard.

Owain looked at the defiant young face with something akin to appreciation, for the young man seemed a decent enough person, even though affiliated with the Prince’s errant brother.

“What is your name, young one?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Gwion ap Neirin,” the young man replied in a tight voice, “younger son of the Lord of Penweddyg and a man of my Prince’s guard.”

He spoke of his status in Cadwaladr’s court with the same pride Cuhelyn had spoken of his own in Anarawd’s, and could Cuhelyn truly hold that against him? Young Gwion seemed an honest fellow, clearly devoted to his lord as only the too young and still pure-hearted could. One could only wish he’d have chosen a worthier lord for his worship.

But again, perchance Gwion _did_ have good reason to be devoted to Cadwaladr. Penweddyg, also known as Cantref Gwarthof – both names indicating ‘the furthest place’ – lay between the Dyfi and the Yswith and was thus the remotest, least important area of the entire Ceredigion. For a younger son of the lord of such insignificant place, getting accepted in the court of a prince must have been the greatest honour imaginable.

Owain must have come to the same conclusions, for he looked at Cuhelyn askance.

“Do you know him?” he asked, with just a hint of doubt in his voice. Cuhelyn shook his head.

“Nay; nor do I believe he could have been taken into such villainy. I doubt not that he would kill for Cadwaladr’s sake; as would I have done – as I _did_ – for Anarawd. But not by stealth, in double force against lightly armed men expecting no danger. I do not think he’d have such darkness in his heart.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Owain. “Lead him to the side, Iefan, and let us see the others.”

Four more lesser nobles from Cadwaladr’s court were led before Owain’s presence, all older and more fancifully clad than Gwion. They also behaved a lot more deferentially, and Cuhelyn had a hard time _not_ to show his dismay. People like these changed their affiliations more often than they changed their clothes.

Nonetheless, he did not recognise any of them. Well, he _did_ recognise the two eldest ones – he’d seen them before in Cadwaladr’s company – but neither of them had been part of the ambush; for whatever reason, cowardice or righteousness, it was hard to tell.

He said so, and Owain nodded contentedly. At least Hywel didn’t have to start his rule in Ceredigion by having half the nobility hung. Even if they _had_ deserved, it would have led to bitter hatred under his future subjects.

“Very good, then,” the Prince said, then he turned to the captives. “Hywel took you north as hostages to ensure there should be no further resistance in Ceredigion. Therefore, as you had no part in the murdering of Prince Anarawd, I see no reason why I should not release you again. Assuming that you’d swear not to bear arms against Hywel’s rule or offer service again to Cadwaladr… unless at some time to come he should pledge reparation and be restored.”

As it could be expected, the four noblemen – after having discussed the matter in hushed voices – agreed to forswear their allegiance to Cadwaladr and promised peace to Hywel. It might have been the cowardly thing to do, but what other choice did they have? They had their lands and homes in Ceredigion; if they wanted to return to their families unharmed, they had to arrange themselves with the new prince.

The only one who refused the offer was Gwion.

“I have _one_ lord, _one_ Prince,” he said tartly. "I shall serve no other… least the one who threw him out of his lands and burned down the castle that was home to him and to us all.”

The other four were shocked and tried to make him change his mind, but Gwion simply turned away from them in obvious disgust. 

Christ, but he was so young and so naïve it almost hurt to see!

“As you wish,” Owain Gwynedd said with a tolerant smile. “I would not blame a man for holding fast to his allegiance; ‘tis an honourable thing to do, even if the lord you are so devoted to did not behave himself with honour. So be it. But if you would not serve alliance to Hywel, I cannot release you to go back and cause him trouble in Ceredigion; not yet. I shall have your word then that you will not attempt to escape from Aber; not until things have settled between my brother and me and I release you from captivity.” He looked at the young man sternly. “Do you give me your word that you won’t leave?”

Gwion held the Prince’s stare steadily; many an older man would not have been able to do so; but he was young and honest and faithful, clearly willing to do as he would promise.

“I do,” he replied simply.

“Good,” Owain said. “In that case, you shall be allowed to move around within the boundaries of Aber freely – yet not outside them, not as far as a single step. Do you understand?”

“I do,” answered Gwion, and with that, he was led away to be given a guest room. As long as he kept his word, he’d be treated as an honoured guest of the Prince’s household.

The rest of the noble hostages, too, were led back into their rooms. Owain – or rather Hywel – would take their oaths on the next day. Then the guards led before the Prince the common men-at-arms captured in the last battle.

As soon as he cast his eyes upon them, Cuhelyn felt a strange, icy coldness creeping down his spine. He recognized a heavy-set, balding man at once.

With a flash of terrible memory, he found himself back at the brook, near the border of Gwynedd, fighting with one of the attackers, watching helplessly as Siarl ap Padrig prepared to deal a wounded, weakened Anarawd the final blow. Yes, _this_ had been the man whose sword Cuhelyn had caught with the cross of his own blade – the one he’d wielded in his right hand. The man he’d tossed backwards, out of his way, trying to get to Anarawd; to protect his lord and his Prince… his very reason to live.

Clearly, the man had recognised him, too, for he became deathly pale, all of a sudden. He didn’t seem like someone who’d be easily frightened, but he cringed involuntarily under the piercing stare of Cuhelyn’s black, unforgiving eyes and tried to pretend not to know him… not that anyone would believe it for a moment.

Cuhelyn had a strange feeling – almost some sort of twisted pleasure, but in any case grim satisfaction – as he reached out with his maimed arm, the damage clearly visible to anyone present, and pointed at the man with his stump.

“Him,” he said simply. “I was fighting him when my Prince was being slaughtered; gravely wounded, unprotected and helpless. Without him, I could have stopped Siarl ap Padrig. Without him, I would still have my sword-arm. Without him, I’d still be a man worthy to serve a prince. Without him, Princess Marared would be wedded to my lord and Gwynedd and Deheubarth would be allied by now.”

Prince Owain said nothing; neither did he ask any questions. He merely glared at the man unblinkingly, until the poor wretch fell to his knees and begged for his life. Only then did the Prince turn away in disgust.

“Take him to the cellar,” he ordered. “Question him thoroughly; learn everything he might know. When you’re done with him, hang him.”

The guards dragged the kicking and screaming man away. Owain waited dispassionately until his pleas could no longer be heard; then he turned back to Cuhelyn.

“What about the others?” he asked.

Cuhelyn shook his head. “I do not know any of them.”

“Very well,” the Prince sighed. “It would have been too easy to find the rest of them, all at once. We shall find them, eventually; they cannot hide forever.”

“At least now we know who of Cadwaladr’s court was _not_ part of the conspiracy against an alliance between Deheubarth and Gwynedd,” Hywel added thoughtfully. “That is something…even if not enough.”

“Not by far,” his father agreed. “Whoever else might have been part of it, I want them found. They cannot remain unpunished for destroying our efforts to make the Welsh kingdoms strong enough to withstand Norman intrusions,” he turned to Cuhelyn again. “That is something I need your help with, Cuhelyn ab Einion. Therefore I would keep you in my household, if you are agreeable.”

“Of course, my lord,” Cuhelyn bowed again, this time a bit more carefully, but even so, he couldn’t do it without holding to Hywel’s supporting arm. “That is the only reason why I am still alive – to see my Prince avenged.”

“Vengeance might be a powerful goal to survive under great duress,” said Owain, “yet for _remaining_ alive, after it has been executed, it perchance would not be enough. I hope we shall be able to give you another reason to stay with us, eventually, as I would like to have someone around whose brains I can pick whenever I have to deal with matters concerning Deheubarth and its princes.”

Seeing Cuhelyn’s eyes darkening in anger, he stopped the expected outburst with a raised hand.

“I do not want you to forswear any previous alliances; or to break any word you might have given before. I assume, though, that you were in agreement with Anarawd about an alliance between our kingdoms being needful for the Welsh people.”

“That I was, my lord,” said Cuhelyn, mollified by his courteous words, “for we both could see that the constant fighting among each other would only furthen the Normans’ case to subjugate our country.”

“So it is,” Owain agreed. “An thus, even though my plans have been hamstringed in the first round by my own brother – for what mad reason ever – I still have not given up the idea of an alliance between our lands. Can you agree with good conscience to help me with knowledge and advice how to approach that goal? You’ve grown up with the princes of Deheubarth; not-one knows them better than you do.”

“I can and I shall, my lord,” answered Cuhelyn. “It would be Anarawd’s wish, too.”

“Stay in my court as a guest, then, rest and heal,” said the Prince. “I shall seek you out when I have need of you.”

Recognising a dismissal when he heard one, Cuhelyn thanked the Prince and allowed Hywel to escort him back to his modest little guest room. He was relieved that he could leave the feast and rest. He’d delivered another one of Anarawd’s murderers, and though that wouldn’t bring his beloved lord back – nothing could – he felt the weight upon his conscience lessening a bit. 

Six of the assassins had paid. There were only two left. When those, too, had been revealed and properly punished, then – and only then – he might begin to think about what he would do with the rest of his life.


	5. Chapter 4 - Taking Shield Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shield-oath is something I’ve come up with myself, without any actual historic reference. I’ve created the oath on the basis of the mead-oath from the BBC miniseries 1066.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 04 – TAKING SHIELD AGAIN**

It seemed, though, that Hywel was already way ahead of him in that matter and had very clear ideas about what would come later. For from the next morning on, the Poet Prince appeared in his room shortly after having broken his fast and dragged him out of his voluntary isolation.

There was an open courtyard below the gentle hill that held the royal _tref_ of Aber; a courtyard upon which the young warriors of the Prince’s household regularly gathered to practice their weapons skills. This was where Hywel dragged Cuhelyn every single day, explaining that he needed to re-gain his strength if he wanted to become his own man again. Cuhelyn admitted that it was very true, and even though every inch of his battered body protested against more strain, he followed the young prince obediently.

To his surprise, Hywel had taken it upon himself to drill him personally, instead of giving him into the hands of the armsmasters. For the first couple of weeks all he did was to make Cuhelyn stretch, for his weakened muscles and sinews needed to get used to the strain again. Then they would spar at quarter speed for quite a while. Then at half speed. It took almost three months ere Hywel would finally find him recovered enough to allow him to spar at full speed. Even then, they always started with the stretching exercises and the slower bouts. But at least he could spar as before again, albeit he still tired easily.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was at the beginning of his fourth month in Aber, with the relatively mild winter passing its zenith, when Hywel, finishing their daily practice, removed his helm and accepted the towel his manservant handed him to wipe his sweaty face.

“You have gained back most of your strength and speed,” he said approvingly. “Knowing that you are forced to use your weaker hand, I find your skill with the blade amazing.”

Cuhelyn shrugged. “I always could use both hands with some skill; ‘tis only so that the one I lost used to be my better hand. Even so, ‘twas not good enough to save my lord.”

Hywel shook his head in exasperation. “Walk with me,” he said. “I want to speak to you about something.”

Allowing the young prince’s manservant to help him out of his mail shirt, Cuhelyn shed his padded gambeson and followed his benefactor back to Owain’s hall. Hywel led him to his own chambers.

“Father and I have spoken about your place at the court,” the young prince began. “He’d gladly take you into his own service, as you’ve proven yourself to be brave and faithful – and skilled, too, even with only one hand. If you choose to be one of his personal guards, you shall have a place among them.”

The offer surprised Cuhelyn very much. “I am… honoured,” he finally stammered.

“As you should be, as this is not an offer made lightly,” answered Hywel gravely. “My father only accepts the best. However, I would like you to think about another offer; one that I wish to make you myself, with my father’s blessings.”

He paused, but Cuhelyn said nothing, just looked at him intently with those dark, unfathomable eyes of his.

“I would like you to become shield and sword for me, as you used to be for Anarawd,” Hywel continued; then he corrected himself. “Well, not in _everything_. They say you used to serve your lord with your body as well as with your sword. Is that true?”

“It is,” replied Cuhelyn simply. Hywel nodded.

“I shall not demand the same from you, unless it would be something you wish,” he said. “What I’d need is someone I can trust unconditionally, and as you have no other fealties left, you would be best suited to be that one. Would you be willing to become my shield?”

“You’ve fulfilled my lord’s dying wish and avenged his death,” said Cuhelyn. “You cannot ask me aught that I’d not do for you. If you wish for my shield and sword, such as they are in these days, they are yours. If you wish for my body to use as you please, _I am_ yours. As long as you don’t ask for my heart; for _that_ will always belong to my lord.”

“Worry not about _that_ ,” said Hywel with uncharacteristic bitterness. “I am used to be second best.”

That statement, as well as the bitterness of Hywel’s tone, surprised Cuhelyn. Usually, the Poet Prince was of a cheerful nature; and should anything bother him, he never let others notice it. In truth, it was a sign of unusual trust that he’d unwind in Cuhelyn’s company so much.

“No-one thinks of you as second best!” Cuhelyn protested. “You may not be the _elding_ of your father, but you are without doubt his right hand in everything that counts.”

“In everything but his heart,” Hywel said, still in that bitter tone. This must have bothered him for quite some time; perhaps his entire life.

Cuhelyn shook his head and laid his hand upon Hywel’s.

“Speak not so,” he said. “Prince Owain may favour your brother Rhun in some things; it would be hard not to, I guess, considering his beauty and his agreeable nature. But he knows as well as everyone else in Gwynedd that ‘tis _you_ he can count on when matters take a serious turn. Prince Rhun might be his favourite, but ‘tis you to whom he turns when his kingdom needs a strong hand. Is that not why he set _you_ up in Ceredigion as a prince with a demesne of your own and not your brother, older though he may be?”

“Perhaps you are right,” Hywel admitted with a twisted smile. “Still, there are times I wish he would honour me less and love me more.”

Cuhelyn laughed. “You’d go mad within weeks, would he keep you around him all the time as he does with Rhun.”

“There’s some truth in that,” Hywel agreed ruefully. “I know I’m being unreasonable. ‘Tis just… I’d like to be the _first_ sometimes, too. His favourite. The apple of his eye.”

“There’s nothing unreasonable in that,” replied Cuhelyn. “He is your father and you love him. And he loves you, too, never doubt that; I have seen how he looks at you with pride and joy. He just favours his _elding_ , that’s all. This is the fate of all younger sons; to give way to the firstborn. It was the same with me and my brother… until I met Anarawd.”

“Why would that change things between you and your brother?” asked Hywel with a frown. “You’ve even signed over to him your share in your father’s lands, have you not?”

Cuhelyn nodded. “I have, and gladly so. I had no need for them any longer. Not for lands, not for family ties, not for anything else. Because for Anarawd, I always came first; before his brothers, before his mistresses, before everything and everyone, save for his son and his duties towards Deheubarth.”

“And now you have nothing,” said Hywel. “You gave up everything for him, and now he’s gone, and you can never gain back that which you have lost.”

“True,” Cuhelyn allowed. “And yet I would do the same again, would I be offered a second chance.”

They were quiet for a long time, listening to the fire crackling in the hearth.

“He must have been an extraordinary man indeed,“ Hywel finally said, “to command such loyalty from a man like you. For I deem that you do not give your heart – and your oath – lightly.”

“And you would be right; but Anarawd was worth all that and more,” Cuhelyn said. “Without him, I am but an empty shell.”

“Yet even an empty shell can be filled with life again,” pointed out Hywel. “Sometimes small crabs move in and give the existence of the shell new meaning. It might not be the same, for sure, but at least it is _life_... better than emptiness in any case, I would say.”

For a long while, they were quiet again. Then Cuhelyn looked at the young prince soberly.

“I cannot transfer that which I felt for Anarawd to you, for such feelings cannot be commanded,” he said. “But if you accept my oath, I can promise that no-one and nothing would ever come before you. For me, you’d always be the _first_.”

And Hywel embraced him and kissed him like a brother, saying. “No Prince could ever ask for more.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Word about this promise was swiftly brought to Owain Gwynedd, whose heart was gladdened by it; for Cuhelyn had been right. As much as the Prince of Gwynedd had a weakness wherever his _elding_ was concerned, he knew all too well how much he needed his second-born and how valuable Hywel’s unique skills as a warlord and his unwavering loyalty were for the kingdom. Owain was glad, indeed, that his son had found someone who would always watch his back and would never put anyone before him.

And thus at the onset of that evening’s feast, the gathering court found Cuhelyn ab Einion kneeling before Prince Hywel, accepting the oath-cup from the young prince and speaking the ancient, now near-forgotten words of the shield-oath.

_“I swear before this gathering  
that I shall be shield and sword for my lord  
and fight for him to the death.  
If my lord should die,  
I shall take his place and fight as he would have fought.  
If any man who witnessed here today my oath  
should see me taken with weak heart and falter,  
he shall remind me of this pledge,  
made before you all.”_

With that, he emptied the oath-cup, giving it back to Hywel, who had it refilled to speak his own promise; that of a liege lord given to his sworn brother, in a clear, ringing voice.

_“And I, who have heard and accepted your oath,  
swear here before my kin   
that I shall treat you as a brother,   
‘til death breaks the shield-bound between us.  
For you have given up your former life   
to become my shield,   
and thus you have become as a brother to me,   
in all but blood.  
Should any man here see me   
forgetting what I owe my shield-brother,   
he shall remind me of this pledge,   
made before my kin.”_

He, too, emptied his cup; and then Owain Gwynedd called Cuhelyn ab Einion before him and kissed him on the brow as he would kiss a son of his own body and welcomed him to the family. His wife and his _elding_ did the same, and all people present rejoiced in this event. For even though Prince Rhun was clearly his father’s favourite, everybody knew that if someone deserved this kind of absolute loyalty, it was Hywel ab Owain, the Poet Prince, the son of the Irishwoman – the greatest warrior of the kingdom of Gwynedd.

And although the new shield of the young prince had but one hand, no-one doubted that he would be able to protect him; better, perchance, than many a noble-born warrior who had both hands intact but no courage or faith in his heart. Even the eyes of young Gwion - still prisoner of his given word in Aber - rested on Cuhelyn with envy, for having a Prince whom he could serve with everything he had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is the last chapter already hand-coded, I might not be able to keep up the daily updates. My apologies.


	6. Chapter 5 - Saint Kentigern's See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we are slowly catching up with canon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following events are taking place shortly before and during the ones described in “The Summer of the Danes”. Obviously.  
>  **Warning: There will be much talk about Church politics. Sorry, folks, but it has to be.**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – SAINT KENTIGERN’S SEE**

The last days of April in the year 1144 of Our Lord found Cuhelyn ab Einion on his way from Owain Gwynedd’s royal tref in Aber to the episcopal see of St. Asaph's at Llanelwy. Not alone, of course; he was riding in the company of Hywel ab Owain, the Poet Prince, as a member of Hywel’s guard and as the young prince’s shield-brother, now bound to him by the ancient shield-oath.

More than half a year had gone by since Anarawd’s death by that cowardly ambush, executed by some of Cadwaladr’s closest men; a terrible deed that had ended Cuhelyn’s life as he had known it for near thirty years. From the eight men taking part in the murder, seven had already paid with their lives; he had found the last of the common men-at-arms almost by accident when visiting Ceredigion with Hywel. Only one of them was still running free; one whose name Cuhelyn still knew not but whose face he would never forget.

He had almost completely recovered from his grave injury during these months in-between. Granted, he could not grow a new hand for the one that had been lost in Anarawd’s defence, but – thanks to Hywel who had forced him to pick up his sword as soon as he could stand upright without help again – could now wield said sword with his right hand as well as he’d once wielded it with the now-gone left one.

He had also found a new purpose in life, aside from avenging his murdered lord. He might not _feel_ the same way for Hywel as he’d used to feel for Anarawd – as he, in truth still felt for Anarawd – but he _had_ transferred his devotion to the Poet Prince, after all, who was more than worthy to command such loyalty.

They had even been intimate, occasionally. Unlike Anarawd, Hywel was clearly a lover of women most of the time, and Cuhelyn respected that. But sometimes he got into a fey mood, usually when he felt slighted by Owain’s open favouritism towards his brother Rhun, and in those times he needed to give up control ere his bitterness and disappointment would make him say – or do – something he would regret later.

In those times, Cuhelyn was there for him.

The Prince’s household in Aber had long since gotten used to Hywel’s one-armed shadow, always present, always on guard like a faithful watchdog. Some of them were even afraid of him; said he could see right into their hearts with those dark, piercing eyes of his. Which was pure nonsense, of course, but it served him well. Superstition made people, who would _not_ fear his sword, behave extremely warily around him, fearing _the evil eye_ , with which he could supposedly turn their fates to the worse.

“Now that’s a rare sight and mightily welcome,” Hywel’s amused voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“What do you mean?” he asked in mild confusion.

Hywel grinned at him. “You, smiling to yourself. Usually, you’re in a dark and brooding mood, frightening people out of their wits. What did bring that smile about?”

“I was thinking of the foolish things people like to say about me,” Cuhelyn admitted.

“Well, _that_ is a laughing matter indeed,” Hywel agreed, still grinning. “Let’s hope you’ll have the same effect on Bishop Gilbert’s canons; _then_ we’ll truly have something to laugh about.”

“Listening to you one would believe that the true reason of his journey weren’t to pay proper respects to the new bishop of St. Asaph’s but to frighten him out of his mind,” teased Cuhelyn.

“That would be the basic idea, yes,” said Hywel, laughing. “Father wanted to remind the good bishop whose word is law in Gwynedd – which certainly _wouldn’t_ be Bishop Gilbert, no matter how important he deems himself.”

“I still marvel what might have ridden Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury to appoint a Norman bishop with not a word of Welsh, in a see nine-tenth Welsh to begin with,” said Cuhelyn darkly. “A Norman, on the throne of Saint Kentigern! ‘Tis a slap into the face of every self-respecting Welshman!”

“Which, I am certain, has been the English archbishop’s intention to begin with,” commented Hywel drily. “The diocese has been in abeyance for some seventy years; its location, with a foot on either side of the border and all the power of Gwynedd westward, has always made it difficult to maintain. Now it seems that the Church wishes to gain a firm foothold well into Welsh lands.”

“Or in the lands of the Earl of Chester, where the cathedral stands,” Cuhelyn pointed out.

Hywel waved off his argument. That may be so, but all the Clwyd Valley above it is in Father’s territory; and Father has a sharp eye on the doings of Archbishop Theobald in his domain. The archbishop should better remember that Owain Gwynedd is always to be reckoned with.”

“Indeed,” said Cuhelyn, suddenly laughing. “I remember still what it was like, only four years ago, when Bishop Meurig was consecrated in Bangor. I rode as a part of Anarawd’s entourage when the Princes of Deheubarth and Gwynedd united their power and weight to oppose a bishop who’d been pressed upon us by Canterbury.”

“Well, at least they sanctioned a Welshman back then,” said Hywel. “And one who at first refused to swear fealty to King Stephen… _or_ to acknowledge the dominance of Canterbury.”

“He did give in in the end and did both, though,” reminded him Cuhelyn.

Hywel nodded. “And it did cost him Father’s favour at that time. The meeting between Deheubarth and Gwynedd was part of the resistance to allowing Meurig to take his seat at all.”

“But they have come to terms and made up their differences since then, haven’t they?” asked Cuhelyn. “At least that is what Anarawd told me.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Hywel with a thoughtful nod. “Bishop Meurig is no hero, but he has the best interests of his flock in his mind. I have no doubt that he and Father will work together diligently to keep Gwynedd from becoming subservient to Theobald’s influence.”

“It will be quite the challenge, though,” said Cuhelyn.

“No,” answered Hywel sharply. “Consecrating a Norman to St. Asaph’s was a challenge; a challenge to princes as well as to the Welsh clergy. Gwynedd has no mind to give way to Canterbury, and neither will Ceredigion as long as I have anything to say about it. We have saints and customs and rites of our own.”

“And we are on our way to Llanelwy to remind the new bishop that he’s in foreign territory, and had better mind his manners,” Cuhelyn added with a short bark of laughter.

“That we are,” agreed Hywel genially. “I hope he understands the message and goes gently with his flock. After all, there are many Welsh churchmen who wish the metropolitan see at St. David’s restored, with its own archbishop, to make our country independent from Canterbury.”

“Could we truly achieve that?” Cuhelyn asked doubtfully.

Hywel shook his head. “Not unless we wished to sever ties with Rome entirely; and even then, I very much doubt that we’d have the strength, divided among us as we are. There was a sound reason why Father and Anarawd wanted to forge a lasting alliance between our kingdoms. A shame that Cadwaladr’s greed shattered our hopes and a good man like Anarawd had to die. But Bishop Gilbert might not know that; and wielding that threat can be used to keep him within his reins.”

“Not if the true intention behind appointing him to Saint Kentigern’s throne has been as much secular as it was Church politics,” said Cuhelyn grimly. The years spent as Anarawd’s faithful shadow had made him well-versed in both; and Hywel had come to value his opinion and his keen insight in political matters. “I fear that the true reason was that Canterbury wanted a firmly English hold on the borderlands; and if that is so, then Bishop Gilbert is only the forerunner of an English invasion soon to follow. Not right now, not even in the next couple of years... they are going to let him time enough to prepare our lands for the taking.”

“The decision to set a Norman bishop before our noses certainly contains a multitude of calculated risks and questionable issues,” Hywel agreed. “Now that the forces of King Stephen and the Empress Maud have exhausted each other for the time being, the English have begun looking towards our lands again. Well, we’ll see how the Norman bishop will feel about being beset with Welsh princes every other way.”

He laughed and urged on his steed to catch up with his father, Cuhelyn, laying his one hand upon the neck of his own horse, followed him.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They reached their destination in the late morning: the town of Llanelwy, with the cathedral of St. Asaph’s comfortably nestled in a green, sheltered valley where the two rivers, the Clwyd and the Elwy, met above Rhuddlan and moved together into tidal water.

For all that it was called a town, there was truly nothing that would catch the eye. Small and compact it was, with close-clustered, low wooden houses, in the muddle of which a single track led to the cathedral itself: a modest, long-roofed building with a timber bell turret. By all its modesty, it was still the largest building in town, though, and the only one walled in stone.

A range of other low-roofed timber buildings crowded the precinct. These must once have been the houses of the canons, most likely, for they had clearly fallen into disrepair during the seventy years for which the diocese had been dormant. On some of them, men were busily doing repairs, while a small handful of them seemed to have been in use all the time, just as the church itself had been.

“Not much of a bishopric,” said Cuhelyn dismissively, used to the much more impressive sacred places of Aberdaron and Clynnog, with their shrines and holy wells and numerous _clas_. “I am certain that Bishop Gilbert feels slighted, having to give up the pompous stone churches of his Norman homeland. All this must seem terribly rustic to him.”

“And yet it is a most sacred place for us,” replied Owain Gwynedd, having caught his sarcastic remark, although it had originally been meant for Hywel’s ears. “It was founded by Saint Kentigern himself, after all, many centuries ago as a _clas_ , and has worked as one ever since… until now.”

Cuhelyn nodded in understanding. The _clas_ was a time-honoured institution of the old Celtic church: a college of canons – most of them married, with large families – under a priest-abbot, with only one or two other priests among the members… much like the first followers of Our Lord, back in the Holy Land. The Normans, devoted to the Roman rite, despised the _clas_ , of course, just like all the other, ancient Welsh rites that came much more naturally to the Welsh people than their rigid rules.

“And now Bishop Gilbert is most likely trying to _reform_ it, disposing everything to be subject to the norm of Canterbury,” he commented darkly.

“That might take longer than he’ll be alive,” Hywel added, with a dark smile, too.

“The Normans are a persistent people,” his father answered with a sigh. “Well, let us make our presence known and see how the Norman bishop can entertain a Welsh Prince who has _not_ come to make his uphill work any easier.”

His chiefs laughed grimly, and they all moved forward into the precinct, looking around them to find someone from the bishop’s household who would announce them.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They found the bishop’s palace easily enough. It was a new timber building, generously built, consisting of the hall and chambers of the bishop himself, with a number of small, equally new dwellings on either side, designed for the use of his household. Hywel whistled in appreciation.

“They’ve been clearly building a lot since Bishop Gilbert was consecrated,” he said. “’Twas but a better part of a year, and they’ve already raised a palace for him!”

Huw, the chaplain of his father, shrugged. “They ought to have some semblance of a cathedral enclave, in order to receive their new bishop decently,” he pointed out. “They might not like the fact who – or _what_ – he is, but he _is_ their bishop now, and the few canons that are still serving here will depend on his goodwill. Especially the married ones.”

“Do you know any of them closely?” asked Cuhelyn; it was apparent that he was the only foreigner in Owain’s entourage. All the others had probably come to Llanelwy from time to time, out of respect for the holiness of the place.

“Only one of them: Meirion,” answered Huw. “The others are coming and going as the need of their flock demands; he’s been the only settled one for many years. I marvel if he is still here. The bishop and his chaplain would likely not look at his married status with kindness.”

“And I marvel when they are going to realise that an entire royal household is waiting outside their town,” said Dylan, the Prince’s manservant, laughing.

As if answering his question, they spotted a big man in a black cossack, and tonsured, too, clearly in authority here and a priest, hurrying purposefully across the grass towards them. A tall, muscular man he was, even handsome in his own dark fashion, with angular features and a very erect posture, the ring of his cropped hair barely salted with grey. His bright black eyes, though, seemed to hide a faint uneasiness behind the commanding brow.

“Good day, my Lord Prince, and welcome!” he said in a sonorous voice. “’Tis an unexpected honour for us all, to greet you and your court in our modest little town. Although,” he added with a wry half-smile, “I must admit that I am at a loss how we might provide you – all of you – with proper lodgings. As you can see, we are still very much building the enclave and are not quite prepared to entertain so many guests at once, not yet. Still, we will do all that we can within our limits to make your stay a pleasurable one.”

They could see that he was genuinely worried that the enclave might not fulfil all requirements of the traditional Welsh hospitality… which would be a great shame for both the bishop’s household and the town itself.

“Worry not about that,” replied Owain generously. “We have not sent word about our visit in advance and understand that you could not have prepared in time. We shall build up our tents over there, upon those hills above town. And we have bought several head of cattle and enough bread with us to cover our own needs for a few days.”

“His lordship Bishop Gilbert will be released to hear that,” said the tall cleric with extreme dryness. “He so hates being unprepared for _anything_ ; less so for a royal visit unexpected though it may be. He is a man who takes great care to be in control.”

“Stray tidings of him have reached Aber already, and I am eager to see how much of that does actually have a kernel of truth,” said Owain, the dryness of his voice matching that of the cleric. “But would you not give us your name, Father, as you clearly know mine, which puts me at a disadvantage when dealing with you.”

“You need no advantage when dealing with my, my Lord Prince, for I always have been and always will be faithful to you and your House,” answered the cleric. “But a name for a name is fair trade, as they say; and mine in Meirion. I have served this church for many years, as your own chaplain may tell you, for we have known each other in all those years. Under the new dispensation,” here his face darkened quite a bit, “I am a canon of the chapter.”

While he was speaking, Cuhelyn eyed him with interest. The canon made the picture of a proud, ambitious man, not quite certain of himself and his powers… which was understandable, coming from someone who had been in charge of Saint Kentigern’s seat for years, in all but name and title, and now found himself a canon, attendant on a Norman bishop.

Huw, Owain’s chaplain, must have been thinking along similar paths, for he asked the canon in obvious surprise. “Gilbert would allow you to become part of his chapter? I thought Canterbury frowned heavily upon married priests.”

“That would be no longer an obstacle,” replied Canon Meirion, his face closed and hard. “My wife died last Christmas; she was in her last illness when the bishop arrived, and so he… waited for me to become available.”

Cuhelyn felt shocked and greatly dismayed at the same time. The Norman bishop had _waited_ for a priest’s wife to _die_ , so that he could include said priest - whom he needed and clearly found useful - in the chapter, without making any allowances to the Welsh rites? What kind of man would do such a cold and cruel thing?

“A zealous Norman bishop, bent on ridding himself of the married priests of his new diocese,” answered Hywel, shocking him quite a bit. He had not realized he was speaking out his thoughts aloud.

“He has an uphill row to hoe if that is his final agenda,” remarked Huw the chaplain, married and content with his children himself.

“That will not stop him trying,” replied Canon Meirion flatly. Then he shook himself, as if regretting having spoken against his bishop so openly, and turned to Owain again. “My Lord Prince, if there is anything wanting, anything we can provide you, during your stay, you have only to speak, and I shall see it remedied.”

“Thank you,” said Owain. “We shall try not to burden you unduly. My own servants will see after my needs; all they will require is some assistance and being shown around properly. As for myself, however, I would like a word with you – in private – after I have met our new bishop.” 

That was clearly more an order than a request, and understood thusly.

“Certainly, my Lord,” the canon bowed, respectfully yet without any trace of servility. He was a Welshman, after all, and jealous of his dignity, despite the Norman bishop now providing in the church that had been his own for many years. 

Then he scurried off to give the necessary orders, and soon, they found themselves surrounded by the bustle and purpose that would belong more to a prince’s _llys_ than a church enclave. Which was only proper, as the presence of Owain’s court _made_ Llanelwy his _llys_ , even if only for the upcoming few days.

Dylan, the Prince’s manservant, gave instructions to the other servants who had come with them from Aber, and within half a mark, there were men and women scurrying about with pitchers of water, armfuls of bedding, folded hangings, trays of bread and baskets of food. Some of the men-at-arms were sent with the servants to build up the tents on the hilltops, so that the Prince would be lodged properly, according to his rank.

“You can go and speak with the bishop if you want,” Dylan told the Prince with the easy familiarity of an old and trusted servant – he had rocked Owain on his knee as a child, after all. “Your court will be ready and waiting for you by the time you need it.”

“Good,” Owain nodded, knowing that Dylan was as good as his word. Then he turned to his son with a wry smile. “Shall we pay our _respects_ to Bishop Gilbert, then?”

“Far be it from us to make his lordship feel slighted,” answered Hywel, laughing gaily. “I just fear it would be more _respect_ for him than he bargained for.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Not waiting for Canon Meirion, or anyone else, to show them the way, Owain strode purposefully towards the bishop’s palace, Hywel and the nobles of his court in trail. To make a better impact, he had invited Einion ab Ithel, Griffith ap Meilyr and Tudur ap Rhys along on this visit: the most respected and powerful men of his kingdom. Granted, Tudur ap Rhys was a man of Powys, but a close friend of Owain, whose mother was of Gwynedd, and whose loyalties would not be questioned. 

Together with Huw, the chaplain, and Urien, the Prince’s head clerk, they made an impressive picture of concentrated power. No-one seemed to notice Cuhelyn tagging along, but even if the had, no-one would have questioned his presence. He was Hywel’s shield. Where Hywel went, he would go.

The bishop’s household, though they clearly went in awe of their new, alien master, seemed to delight in making a great fuss about Owain. As if wanting to signal their unwavering loyalty to their Prince as a message – or a warning – to the Norman bishop. One could understand their reaction, if one was familiar with the history of the Church in the Welsh lands.

A long time ago, in what had become known as the age of the saints, celibacy had been demanded of all Celtic priests as insistently as Canterbury – and its extended hand to the Welsh lands, Bishop Gilbert – would demand now. Yet the circumstances had been different back then, at a time when the entire structure of the Celtic Church had been built on the monastic ideal. In other words, all priests were considered holy hermits and ascetics to a certain degree, and anything less would be considered a violation of time-honoured custom and a decline in sanctity.

But in the many hundreds of years gone by, that lofty ideal had faded to legends, and – understandably enough – there was just as indignant a reaction to the re-imposition of the old practice, and by strangers from the outside at that, as there once must have been to its gradual abandonment. 

For centuries now Welsh priests had lived as decent married men and raised families, just like their parishioners - save for the few who would still feel the vocation to live out their lives in a hermit’s cell. It was not even unknown for the son to follow his sire in the cure of a parish; and though it often led to tensions within the Church, sometimes even the sons of bishops believed it to be their birthright to succeed their fathers, as though the sacred offices could have turned into heritable fiefs.

Yes, the practices did have their faults, and there were tendencies even within the Welsh Church to curtail them, should they work against the interests of the community. But to have a foreign bishop imposed upon them from without - one who would denounce all time-honoured practices as abominable sin - with the declared goal to rid his diocese of all but the celibate clergy was an outrage to them all. Even if they were careful enough not to voice their opposition, they clearly saw it as an attack on their personal faith and were anything but happy with it.

Was it surprising that Canon Meirion, obviously an able an impressive man, had no intention to suffer diminution, simply for having followed the old rites in good faith? Certainly, he had buried his wife just in time to be accepted in the new order of things, but there was still that uncertainty hovering above him, an unspoken fear that he still could be cast out, despite his usefulness and his unique knowledge about the working of the enclave that he had led for many years. Why would he be still concerned?

Cuhelyn shook his head as he followed the Prince and his entourage to the new bishop’s audience chamber. Whatever Canon Meirion’s problem might be, it concerned him but little. If it was of any importance, he would learn about it in good time. If it was not, he did not need to worry about. His main concern was the safety of Hywel, and to that he would see under any circumstances.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The bishop came to greet the secular power of his new in the audience chamber opening from the great hall that served as the dining room of his entire household, _including_ his canons. He was a man of middle age and middle height, with straight, wiry steel grey hair around a domed tonsure and a long, narrow face parted by a thin nose with wide, flaring nostrils. Not a very likeable face, but that, Cuhelyn corrected himself, might have more to do with the instinctive rejection of the Welsh towards a foreigner set before their very noses than with the proud features themselves. 

The thin lips of the bishop were arranged into a formal smile that seemed a little artificial, as if ha had not had much experience in smiling lately. Perchance for a very long time.

“My Lord Owain, ‘tis an unexpected honour for our humble enclave to greet you here at this time,” he said smoothly and sketched a bow just deep enough to be respectful but not so deep as if signalling that he would recognize Owain’s authority above his own. Not a good sign for any further co-operation, should they be such things in the future at all.

“Yes, I’m fairly certain that it _is_ unexpected,” returned the Prince drily. “Therefore, we do not intend to impose upon your household with such a numerous escort, as I see that you’re still in the process to establishing yourself upon Saint Kentigern’s throne. We shall stay in our tents and eat our own food, in order to avoid putting too much restrain upon your limited resources, my lord bishop.”

His tone, the choice of his words was so condescendingly respectful that Cuhelyn had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep a straight face. The unnatural brightness of Hywel’s eyes revealed that the young Prince was having the same difficulties. The faces of Einion ab Ithel Griffith ap Meilyr and Tudur ap Rhys were the very images of carefully schooled neutrality, but their eyes, too, were bright with amusement.

Bishop Gilbert recognized the masterfully veiled insult as well, of course, but was more cautious than to react to it,

“That’s very generous of you, my lord, although hardly necessary,” he replied, albeit they both knew that he would be hard pushed to feed such a small army. ‘I do hope that at least you and the nobles of your court will honour our table in the hall for dinner. Would you introduce them to me? I do not think that we would have met before. And this is Canon Morgant; you already know Canon Meirion, I understand.”

Although a Welshman himself, Canon Morgant seemed every bit the kind of cleric a Norman bishop would wish as his right hand to put a wild Welsh diocese into proper Norman order. A middle-aged cleric, rotund and portly, with a broad face that mirrored such an uncompromising rectitude that Cuhelyn disliked him at once. His chill, sharp eyes appeared to weigh the visitors at once… and to find them wanting. His voice when he spoke the traditional greetings in fluent yet strongly accented Welsh and his manners were gracious enough but he did not look as if he’d be easy on shortcomings in others.

Could _he_ be the source of Canon Meirion’s uncertainty about his own position in a college of canons freshly rearranged according to Roman order? Cuhelyn wondered.

Owain Gwynedd had made the necessary introductions in the meantime and gracefully accepted the offer of dining at the bishop’s table with the nobles of his court. Polite and most formal platitudes were exchanged ere they would leave the bishop’s palace again, amused and concerned in equal parts. 

Amused by the fact that both Bishop Gilbert and Canon Morgant appeared to be decidedly uncomfortable in their presence. And concerned, seeing how the Norman bishop had wasted no time to break the old casting mould of the Celtic _clas_ and reshaping everything according to the Roman norm.

Things were proceeding far too quickly for the Prince’s comfort.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Once they were out of the palace, Canon Meirion turned to Owain.

“My Lord Prince, you wanted a word with me. As it happens, I would like a word with you, too, in a matter that concerns my own family. Would you honour my home with your presence?”

Such a request would have been largely unheard of in a royal Norman household. But Welsh princes lived in close touch with their subject and cared for those faithful to them. Small wonder that even the otherwise irresponsible ones like Cadwaladr had a devoted following.

Therefore Owain Gwynedd followed the troubled cleric into one of the enclave houses that had apparently been used all the time readily enough. He only took Hywel with him; a son would have to be faithful to his father’s obligations, even after the father’s death.

Cuhelyn trailed after them unnoticed.

The house was a very modest one, fitting a humble clergyman – although Cuhelyn wondered if Canon Meirion was indeed _that_ humble. At least he lived simply enough to keep up appearances. The solar was barely enough for the five of them to sit comfortable along a table that clearly also saved as the canon’s writing desk and was warmed through the adjoining kitchen, where the fireplace stood. Another two doors, on each side of the kitchen presumably led to bedchambers – and that was basically it.

Yet the widowed priest did not live here alone. A tall, beautiful girl came forth to greet them reverently, her eyes dutifully lowered, her glossy blue-black hair hanging over her shoulder in a single braid, as thick as her wrist. She could not be more than eighteen years of age, and though there was no outright similarity between her and Meirion, their straight posture and dark, brilliant eyes were the same, revealing that they were related.

“My daughter, Heledd,” the canon introduced her with considered clarity, as if wanting to avoid any misunderstandings. “It is on her behalf mainly that I wished to speak to you, my Lord Prince.”

“On behalf of getting rid of me, you mean,” said the girl bitterly. Then she raised her beautiful eyes to Owain and spoke to him in a bold manner few other girls would dare. “You see, my Lord Prince, my father is an able man who knows the diocese better than any-one else. The new bishop could ill afford to lose him; less so as my mother did him the favour of dying and setting her husband free. Ever since then I have kept this house, cooking and cleaning for my father and hoping that we would be left alone…”

“Which did _not_ happen, I expect,” said Owain drily. 

He could hardly imagine Gilbert tolerating such an obvious reminder of a marriage he would see as unlawful and sacrilegious. Not when he was as bent on ridding himself of all the married priests of his diocese as he seemed to be.

“In his eye I never should have been born,” replied the girl darkly. “Even if my father remains celibate for the rest of his life, _I am_ still here to remind them both of what they want to be forgotten. _Him_ , too,” she glanced at her father with a scowl,” not only the bishop. I stand in the way of his advancement.”

“I believe you are doing your father injustice, child,” said Owain, himself not a stranger to marrying off his daughters to allies in order to enjoy their loyalty. “I am quite certain that he feels a father’s affection for you; as you doubtlessly feel a daughter’s to him.”

Cuhelyn, seeing the girl’s bitterness and the canon’s discomfort, was less certain about that, but what did _he_ know of such things? He didn’t have any children and – given his state and position – he likely never would.

Besides, he never truly wanted any-one but Anarawd, be they men _or_ women.

“I assume the bishop does have a suggestion as how to rectify such an embarrassment,” Owain said, and the girl laughed scornfully.

“Oh, surely. He wants to send me away to a convent in England and make a nun of me.”

“Now _that_ would be a wicked waste!” commented Hywel softly, and Cuhelyn had to agree with him. A girl this proud and strong would wither and die in a cell within a few years.

“It would indeed,” admitted Owain Gwynedd. “And thus I have a mach to propose for you, child. I have a good man in my service, one who holds land in Anglesey and is looking for a wife. He’s a fine fellow; not too young but barely past thirty, which is not too old either, good to look at and well regarded. Ieuan ab Ifor is his name. I can send him word that I’ve found a suitable bride for him. If he accepts, the two of you can ride with me to Bangor when I return home and meet him there to work out all the details.”

Canon Meirion seemed utterly relieved by the Prince’s proposal. He clearly cared for his daughter and wished her no ill, but he also clearly wanted that she may go somewhere else to thrive. Somewhere far enough so that she should no longer trouble him. There would be no objections from his side.

The girl, understandably enough, appeared considerably less happy with the idea.

“Anglesey,” she murmured. “As far away as one can get and still be in North Wales. Yes, that would certainly make Bishop Gilbert happy. Well, it will be better than being shut up behind a grid in an English nunnery like some caged animal.”

“That much is certain,” agreed Owain, smiling; he found the boldness of the girl endearing. “I doubt that your own heart would ever drive you there. And it will also be better than living on here and being made feel an outcast and a burden,” he added, with a look at the canon; a look not entirely without disapproval. “Am I right to understand that you are not wholly set against marriage?”

“No,” she replied slowly. “But I would prefer it to be _my_ choice; not that I would know anything against this man of yours, my Lord Prince.”

“When you meet him, you may approve of him,” said Owain. “This is not the first time I have played matchmaker, and so far I always got the balance right. It comes with the territory, I suppose.”

“We trust your wisdom and experience, my Lord Prince,” said Canon Morgan hurriedly. “I will accompany your myself and escort my daughter to her future husband.”

“Afraid I would not behave properly if you did not watch me like a hawk?” asked the girl bitterly.

“Enough of this,” said Owain before words could be said between father and daughter that they would both regret afterwards. “I shall ask you tonight in the bishop’s presence, daughter, before witnesses to hear, and I expect you to answer me truthfully.”

“I will,” she promised solemnly. “I will do everything that gets me out from under the bishop’s yoke.”

“He shan’t like it,” prophesied Hywel, his eyes sparkling in delight.

His father shrugged. “He will have to learn that he cannot dispose of my subjects if they are _not_ part of the clergy. Only I can do that.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Which was very true, as much as Bishop Gilbert might dislike it. And so it came that on this very evening Owain Gwynedd asked Canon Meirion’s daughter Heledd if it would be her wish to go to a convent in England and become a nun. To this, she answered in front of everyone in the hall with a loud and resounding _no_. After that, the Prince sent word to Anglesey, to his man Ieuan ab Ifor, telling him that he had found a good match for him and offering to bring him his future bride on his way back to Aber.

Bishop Gilbert accepted the solution gracefully enough. For him was only important to see Heledd gone. Canon Morgant, though, who was every bit as rigid as the new bishop, insisted on riding with them to Bangor where Heledd was supposed to meet Ieuan ab Ifor.

“He is likely afraid that she might change her mind and bolt,” commented Hywel laughing.

Cuhelyn, watching the girl’s cold and closed face, nodded thoughtfully.

“That would not surprise me at all,” he said. “She seems as one who likes to get what she wants and how she wants it.”

“She is a Welshwoman,” grinned Hywel with patriotic pride. “Have you expected anything else?


	7. Chapter 6 - Know Thine Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following events are taking place during the ones described in “The Summer of the Danes”. Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the novel for continuity’s sake.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – KNOW THINE ENEMIES**

For the next few days, while they were waiting for an answer from Ieuan ab Ifor, Llanelwy became the _llys_ of Prince Owain and the royal court of Gwynedd – an honour Bishop Gilbert could have done without but had no means to refuse.

Not that Owain would have made any move to intimidate him or undermine his authority; he was shrewder than that. But by simply _being_ there he strengthened people’s disapproval of the bishop’s reforms, both the already realised ones _and_ the planned ones. Ever-present, aware of everything the bishop did or said, he was a most uncomfortable thorn in Gilbert’s side – and there was nothing the bishop could do against it. He was courtesy and consideration in person, after all, expecting the bishop only to house himself and his son and providing for the rest of his entourage himself.

On the fourth day after their arrival to Llanelwy, word from Ieuan ab Ifor came that he would gladly accept any bride his liege had found for him. Therefore it was decided that Owain’s court would leave Llanelwy in the next morning, heading back to Aber and then later to Bangor. 

In his understandable – although well-concealed – relief, Bishop Gilbert offered them to sup with him in hall that evening again; not just the Prince and his son but all his nobles, including their free-born warriors. An offer that was gladly accepted.

“Do you believe this is just relief to see us gone?” asked Hywel thoughtfully.

He was standing with Cuhelyn in front of the cathedral, watching the bustle and purpose within the town and on the gently rising hills above, where the bright pavilions and fluttering pennants of his father’s camp were spread across the green carpet of grass.

Cuhelyn shrugged, clearly not having given the matter any thought so far.

“That I cannot say,” he said. “It can be relief, mostly, I suppose. Or do you expect him having hidden designs?’

“Oh, he definitely has designs, perchance more than just one, neither of them particularly well-hidden,” said Hywel drily. “I just marvel if he is planning to move any of those designs a step forward on this very evening.”

“If he is, then he must have called for reinforcements,” replied Cuhelyn.

Hywel followed the line of his glance and saw two men riding into the precinct, clad in the rusty black habit of Benedictine monks; one of them on a light roan, the other one riding a fine, tall gelding, nut brown and with a lustrous copper sheen to his coat. They were also clearly foreigners here, for they kept looking around with interest.

“You might be right,” said Hywel, his own interest piqued. “Perhaps I should just welcome them and see what they are up to.”

Not waiting for any answer, he was already threading a brisk way through the bustle to the court of the bishop’s palace, where the new visitors were dismounting. On his way there he beckoned a groom after him to take their horses.

“Brothers, may I be of service?” he asked in Welsh, studying them from head to foot with one brilliant glance.

In the shadow of the cathedral, Cuhelyn was making his own observations. For the two monks offered an interesting sight indeed. Their likeness went not beyond the tonsure and the black habit.

One of them was a thick-set fellow in his early sixties, browned by the sun, which revealed that he spent much of his life outside the cloister walls. A shepherd perhaps or a gardener, albeit with the slow, rolling gait of a sailor. His broad face, generously provided with good Welsh bone, was mostly smooth, save for the laugh lines in the corner of his small, dark eyes, and content, though a bit of mischief was still lingering in his easy smile. His hands, too, were broad and brown and calloused from all the hard work he had likely been doing all his life.

Cuhelyn wondered briefly what might have moved him to take the cowl. He looked like somebody who enjoyed the small pleasures of life.

He also seemed to understand Hywel’s words, unlike his fellow traveller, therefore strengthening Cuhelyn’s suspicion that he was, in fact, a Welshman.

The other one was a little man of slender bones like some sixteen-year-old boy, with an oval, beardless face. The straw-coloured ring of short-cropped hair around his tonsure was spiky like that of some unruly child, but his clear grey eyes had the maturity of a grown man… as well as the fragile innocence of a saint. And for reasons unknown to him, Cuhelyn was quite sure that – albeit less than half of his travelling companion’s age – _he_ was the person with authority of the two of them.

Seeing that one of their visitors – and likely the more important one – did not understand him, Hywel changed easily to English.

“Men of your habit are always welcome,” he said. “Have you ridden far?”

“From Lichfield,” the younger of the two answered. “With a brotherly letter and a gift or Bishop Gilbert from my bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, Roger de Clinton.”

“His lordship the bishop will be heartily glad,” said Hywel with a flashing grin full of mischief that seemed to be mirrored by the dark eyes of the older monk. “For he may be feeling the need of reinforcements. Let me get somebody to bring your saddle rolls after us while I take you where you can rest and take refreshment. It will be a while yet to supper.”

He gestured the servants to unstrap the pack-rolls, which they did in a great hurry, following them in the same manner as he led the visitors across the court to one of the new guest chambers built alongside the hall.

“I do not truly have the right to command here, seeing that I am but a guest myself, but his lordship’s household has got used to me by now,” he commented in amused confidence and Cuhelyn, following him like the shadow that he was to the young prince, was hard-pressed not to laugh. 

Oh yes, the bishop’s household had every reason to accommodate Hywel ab Owain. Who, for his part, was wise enough not to presume upon it too far.

“I hope the lodging will suffice,” he continued. “I’ll send someone with water and find one of the canons to speak with. His lordship has been selecting where he can,” he added with a sly grin, “but his demands come high. He’s having trouble in filling up his chapter. Be at home here, Brothers, and someone will come to you.”

Cuhelyn saw tolerant understanding upon the older monk’s countenance, while the younger one appeared a little bewildered and pondering what counted as the first and essential courtesy among the Welsh. Hywel, though, left any explanations to be the concern the elderly Welsh monk and left them alone to settle and stretch at ease after what must have been a long day in the saddle.

Cuhelyn dutifully trailed after him, back to Owain Gwynedd’s encampment.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They did not see the envoy of Bishop de Clinton till the evening hours, when the bustle in the courtyard was gradually settling down and the building work abandoned for the rest of the day. Preparations for the farewell feast had been completed, those selected to serve at the table were in their places, and both households - that of the Prince of Gwynedd and that of Bishop Gilbert - assembled in the hall. The golden sunlight was still glittering on the low timber roofs, but it had become soft and dream-like already, signalling the approach of sunset.

As soon as the bishop and the princes were settled at the high table – the bishop in the middle, Owain and his son on his right and his left, with the rest of the clerics and noblemen of Owain’s court disposed alternately – Canon Meirion led in the two humble monks. The young one was carrying an illuminated scroll as well as a little carved casket, presumably containing Roger de Clinton’s gift, his expression serene and calm.

Canon Meirion had cleared a space below the high table in advance, from where the young monk would be able to address Bishop Gilbert. There was he standing now, a small, unassuming figure of simple bearing in a plain Benedictine habit, alone in the open space, as the tall, dark canon had stepped aside to give him the floor alone, and even his travelling companion had remained some paces behind him.

The low, murmured conversation among the lower tables ebbed at once as he stopped into that empty space. All eyes turned towards him as Canon Meirion’s sonorous voice announced:

“My Lord Bishop, here is Deacon Mark, of the household of Roger de Clinton, bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, asking audience.”

If possible at all, the silence in the hall grew even deeper. _Everyone_ knew the shrewd, influential and strong-minded Bishop de Clinton, at least from hearsay. It was a well-known fact that all of his fellow clergymen – even the Archbishop of Canterbury – tended to go great lengths to be on friendly terms with him. That he would send an envoy to Gilbert could mean several things, not all of them necessarily good… either for Gilbert _or_ for his Welsh flock.

Gilbert was aware of that himself, but he clearly intended to use the gesture to his own advantage. It would have been foolish not to; he did not have that many advantages here, far away from his usual allies.

“The messenger of my colleague of Lichfield is very welcome,” he said formally.

The young monk – well, _deacon_ , obviously – bowed in gratitude and offered the greetings of his bishop in English, which the old monk immediately translated into Welsh, which obviously met the approval of the Welsh noblemen all around. Cuhelyn’s respect for Roger de Clinton went up a notch. Norman though the bishop of Lichfield might be, but at least he had the wisdom and common courtesy to send a Welsh speaker with his envoy into a Welsh community.

When Deacon Mark finished his short greeting, the bishop rose from his seat and went around the high table, stopping at the edge of the dais. The deacon hurried to meet him half-way; then he bent his knee respectfully to present both the scroll and the casket. Bishop Gilbert reached down with his large, muscular hands eagerly to relieve them. 

For while one could be quite sure that a brotherly gift from bishop to bishop would be precious, the message meant even more to him: a clear sign of support from Lichfield, the bishop of which had just lost a good portion of his territory to him.

“We accept our brother’s kindness with joy,” said Bishop Gilbert, making sure by the slight elevation of his voice that Owain Gwynedd would miss nothing that passed. “And we welcome his messengers no les gladly. Rise, Brother, and take your place at the high table as our honoured guest. And your comrade also.”

He gestured to one of the servants who led the young deacon to a place of honour next to Hywel himself, while the older monk stood well back, letting his comrade have all the attention and watching him with a fond, almost fatherly smile. Another servant led him to a place much further from the princely centre then, near the end of the table – on Cuhelyn’s right, in fact – and he seemed well content with that. 

More so as he had an excellent view of all the faces ranged along the seats of honour. Which was why Cuhelyn himself had chosen to sit there; to be able to watch out for Hywel and his father.

Bishop Gilbert, in the meantime, had the small casket opened and the beautifully crafted filigree silver cross – set with garnets and made by one of de Clinton’s canons who was a silversmith by trade – set on the board before him to be admired. At least it provided them with a safe topic. He also laid de Clinton’s illuminated scroll beside it, surely to await a ceremonial reading aloud, once the meal would wind down towards its end.

Cuhelyn watched the old monk watch the Welsh noblemen of Owain’s court arranged turn for turn with the bishop’s canons and chaplains with a knowing eye. He seemed to find the arrangement, which basically forced the secular and the clerical to rub shoulders, mildly amusing. _He must have seen gatherings like this quite a few times_ , Cuhelyn decided.

While he ate and drank sparsely – he could not afford to become heavy or drunk during such festivities as there was always the possibility that he would have to jump to the defence of his princes – Cuhelyn noticed with mild curiosity that the Benedictine brother showed little to no interest for the most influential Canon Morgant who was seated on his other side. Even though he did exchange with his fellow churchman a few formal pleasantries as courtesy required.

No, the old monk was observing _him_ , Cuhelyn… sidewise and with discretion. They, too, spoke about safe topics – in this case about the two monks’ travel from Shrewsbury Abbey, where the old one apparently lived – even though they were speaking in Welsh, the pleasant voice of the monk moving in cadences that, unlike Cuhelyn’s own, very much belonged in Gwynedd. 

Until Cuhelyn happened to turn directly towards him, resting his left elbow on the edge of the table. Only then did the old monk notice that the arm belonging to said elbow terminated a couple of inches below the joint.

His speech faltered, even stopped entirely for a heartbeat. Then he caught himself staring and withdrew his gaze at once, without any comment. Even though he could not resist studying the stump covertly, over which a fine linen cloth was drawn tightly, secured by the thin silver bracelet, Hywel’s gift, when he thought himself unobserved.

Cuhelyn did not mind him staring. He had lived with his loss long enough to get used to its effect on other people. And at least the gaze of the old monk was one of almost professional curiosity rather than of repulsion. Perhaps he worked in the infirmary of his cloister.

“You may ask, Brother,” said Cuhelyn with a wry smile. “I am not ashamed to admit where I left it. And even though it was my better hand, I always could use both; thus I can manage well enough with the one I have left, without depending on the help – or the pity – of others.”

The old monk nodded in understanding, taking no offence at Cuhelyn’s somewhat brusque tone. He seemed to understand that his curiosity was allowed, perhaps even expected, and he therefore made no secret of it. Cuhelyn could see, though, that he was already hazarding a guess at the possible answers. This old man had seen much and was, as a result, not easily fooled.

Not that Cuhelyn would _want_ to fool him, of course. But he was fairly certain that just as _he_ had deduced the old monk’s possible origins in Gwynedd, his table neighbour, for his part, had recognised _his_ dialect as coming from South Wales, and that he was far from his usual kin here.

“I doubt not,” began the old monk cautiously, “that wherever you left your better hand, you did so with honour. If you are minded to tell me, though, you should know that I, too, have carried arms in my time, giving and taking injury on many battlefields. Where you are willing to lead me, I can follow – and not as a stranger.”

Cuhelyn gave him an appraising look.

“I thought that you did not have an altogether monastic look about you,” he said. “Follow then, if that is what you want. I left my arm lying over my lord’s body, the sword still in my hand…or so those who found me afterwards tell me.”

The old monk nodded, entirely unsurprised, as if he had expected something like that.

“Last year,” he said slowly. “In Deheubarth.”

It was not a question, not truly, but Cuhelyn nodded anyway. “As you have said, Brother.”

“Anarawd?” asked the old monk, his tone infinitely sad.

Every decent Welshman had loved Anarawd and grieved his loss… even those who lived in English monasteries, it seemed.

Cuhelyn nodded again.

“My Prince and my foster brother,” he said. “The stroke, the final stroke that took his life from him, took my arm from me,” he felt the unshed tears burn in his eyes like glowing-hot shards of broken glass. “I wish they had killed me right there with him. But fate had a different task for me.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For a moment they both fell silent, while conversation – and the occasional laughter – swelled and ebbed around them in no particular pattern. Then the old monk spoke again, in a low, respectful voice, asking about the details.

Cuhelyn did not mind telling him, for his interest had clearly grown out of compassion rather than idle curiosity. In a low, even voice he told his table neighbour the terrible tale of treachery and loss, and the old monk listened to him in sad understanding.

“I am amazed,” he then said, “that you lived to tell your tale. In my experience – and, sadly, I do have much experience in such things – it would not take long to bleed to death from such a wound.”

“Or for the murderers to strike again and finish the task,” agreed Cuhelyn with a twisted smile. “And so they would have done without doubt, had our border patrol not heard the affray and came in haste. It was fortunate that Anarawd had given me leave to alert them about our coming.”

“Not for himself, though,” said the old monk slowly.

“No; for him it was already too late,” Cuhelyn closed his eyes for a moment, willing his tears back “Me they left lying when they fled. Our people took me to a small village along the border and left in the care of the local herb mistress before chasing after the murderers of my lord. And when Hywel came with his army to avenge the slaying, he brought me back with him; and after I had recovered as much as I could, Owain took me into his own service.”

“That is… unusual,” said the old monk, and Cuhelyn nodded.

“You say so, Brother; it is. But I could not go back to Deheubarth; the shield-oath has severed my ties with my own kin and with my lord dead, I no longer have a place there,” he shrugged. “At least here I can still be useful. Even a one-armed man is good for something… and he can still _hate_.”

Had he been speaking to any other monk or priest, now certainly would come a dismayed lecture about forgiveness. But this old man had once been a warrior himself; and clearly one who understood the significance of the shield-oath. Few people still did, even among the Welsh.

“You were close to your Prince then?” was all he asked, and Cuhelyn nodded again.

“I grew up with him. I loved him.”

That was a statement that could be understood in different ways but he had no doubt that the old monk had already guessed the true nature of his love towards Anarawd. Guessed and understood, unlikely though _that_ might be, coming from a cloistered brother. But he was also clearly Welsh, and while he might not condone such a bond, he did not judge them either.

“May I know your name?” he asked instead. “And mine is, or in the world was, Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd, a man of Gwynedd myself born at Trefiwr,” and, as if having read Cuhelyn’s previous thoughts, he added with a tolerant smile. “Benedictine though I might be, I have not forgotten my ancestry.”

“Nor should you, in the world or out of it,” replied Cuhelyn, understanding and appreciating the true meaning behind his words. “A name for a name is fair trade, they say. And mine is Cuhelyn ab Einion, a younger son of my father and a man of my Prince’s guard. Or I was one, at least,” he added darkly. “My own kin and that of my Prince would never forgive me the disgrace of returning from the field on which my lord was slain and they are right; I do not deserve it.”

“But you had – and I assume still have – a good reason to stay alive,” said Brother Cadfael thoughtfully. 

He was a Welshman and had borne arms in his youth. He understood the thirst for revenge, even if he did not agree with it, Cuhelyn nodded.

“Those of the murderers I knew I named to Hywel and they have paid,” he said. “There were some I did not know, that is true. But their faces are burned into my mind, for the day when I see them again and hear the names that go with the faces – and then they will also pay. That is why I took shield again, giving my oath to another prince.”

His eyes rested on the lively face of Hywel for a moment. No, he would never be able to transfer his feelings to another one, but the young prince _had_ his loyalty; and he would not leave another battlefield alive again, leaving his lord behind, dead.

Brother Cadfael nodded in understanding; perchance he understood more than he words that had been spoken out loud.

“Can you be certain that Cadwaladr gave the orders for his ambush?” he then asked and Cuhelyn nodded without hesitation.

“Oh yes, very certain. They would have never dared otherwise. And, as I said, I knew some of them by name. They were among Cadwaladr’s chiefs: Siarl ap Padrig and Eurig ap Dilwyn. The rest of them were men-at-arms, of common stock, following orders… save one whose name I do not know. Only he is still running free… for now. He will not remain free forever. One day, our paths will cross; and then he will _pay_.”

“And then what?” asked the old monk. “What will you do once your debt to your Prince has been paid?”

Cuhelyn shrugged. Honestly, he had not thought about it yet; and he doubted that he ever would.

“Then I will go where Hywel wants me to go. My life, such as it is, belongs to him now; and it will be his fully, once I have no other obligations.”

Brother Cadfael nodded thoughtfully. “No Prince can ask for more. Tell me, though: were, do you suppose, is Cadwaladr now? Has he, perchance, resigned himself to the loss of his lands, his castle and everything else he possessed?”

Cuhelyn shook his head with a mirthless grin. “Resigned to his loss? That I very much doubt. He is not the sort of man who would take being bested kindly. Yet no-one seems to know where he is… nor what mischief he has next in mind. Not even his lesser chiefs whom Hywel took to the North as hostages after burning down his castle of Llanbadarn.”

“Owain must truly love him, or he would have let someone rid him of the pest long ago,” commented the old monk drily. “But it seems murder was too much, even for him. What happened to the hostages from Llanbadarn?”

“Most of them have been released, after having sworn no to bear arms against Hywel’s rule or offer service again to Cadwaladr, unless he should pledge reparation and be restored.”

“Is that likely?” asked Brother Cadfael doubtfully. Cuhelyn shrugged.

“ _Everything_ is likely. Cadwaladr would do anything if it served his purpose; if it helped him to get back his possessions. The fact that he had my lord slaughtered and thus prevented an alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth, just because he did not want Owain’s power grow any stronger and thus impossible for him to wrestle dominance from his brother proves that. I fear that he has some unpleasant surprises for us yet.”

The old monk nodded. “The sheriff of Shropshire is an old friend of me, and he prays to God every day that He may keep Owain for thirty years yet… or more. He knows as well as we do that should the dominance in Gwynedd, by any cruel twist of fate, go to Cadwaladr, we would have war along the Welsh border year in, year out. Why, it has only been a couple of years ago that his bands swept over the border after the Battle of Lincoln, causing great uproar and the death of Gilbert Prestcote who was sheriff back then.”

Cuhelyn grinned. “I heard about that. The tale of love between Elis ap Cynan and the Norman lady is one the bards sing all over Wales. Small wonder, though. The Lady Melicent is truly an outstanding beauty.”

“That she is,” agreed the old monk, “and I hope for her that she found here the happiness here that she sought in vain at home.”

“That I cannot tell,” replied Cuhelyn. “I have only seen her from afar a few times, but she seemed content enough; and Elis ap Cynan appeared very much devoted to her still.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Brother Cadfael; and then they continued talking about people they both knew. 

It turned out a surprisingly high number, considering that one of them came from Deheubarth and the other one had spent the last couple of decades in an English monastery.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The opulent meal was slowly winding down to its end, only the wine and mead was still being carried around. Conversation along both the high and the low table had slowed down to a low, contented murmur and more than one guest began to look a little cloudy-eyed. Bishop Gilbert, noticing the ebb of conversation, chose this very moment to take up the scroll brought by Deacon Mark and broke the seal. He rose to his feet and unrolled the vellum leaf, prepared to declaim the salutation of Roger de Clinton for its full effect.

Cuhelyn listened to the Norman bishop’s sonorous voice thoughtfully. Anarawd had insisted that he learned both English and French fluently; therefore he needed not the old monk’s interpretation to understand the letter, which was formal and beautifully executed; carefully worded to impress not only the secular power in Gwynedd but also the Celtic clergy, who might be most in need of cautionary word. 

It was a true masterpiece of Church diplomacy.

“Your bishop is wise,” he said to the old monk. “His greeting sounds honest but not too lavish or flattering. Bishop Gilbert clearly tries to make the best of it but I doubt he realises that this message is as much a reassurance for us as it is for him.”

“I believe Roger de Clinton is quite relieved not to have to maintain as huge a see as the original bishopric of Mercia,” replied Brother Cadfael. “Even though he may not approve the strategy that swept all those border parishes out from under his feet. He cannot defy Archbishop Theobald’s orders, of course, but he chose to take those orders – namely that bishops should stand together – quite literally. Therefore Brother Mark and I shall ride on from here to Bangor and pay the same courtesy to Bishop Meurig.”

“That,” said Cuhelyn with a slow smile, “will _not_ make Bishop Gilbert very happy.”

“Probably not,” agreed Brother Cadfael, “but there is little he could do against it.”

“I would not be so sure about that,” Cuhelyn eyed the bishop with suspicion. “He has already brought division into the Welsh church, and I doubt not that he is harbouring even more secret designs, none of which promises to be good for us.”

As if intending to prove him right, Bishop Gilbert finished reading his colleague’s letter, placed it on the table again and turned to the Prince of Gwynedd who had been listening to his recitation with an unreadable face.

“My lord Owain,” he said smoothly, clearly seizing the mellowed moment, for which he must have been waiting all evening. “I ask your leave to introduce a petitioner who comes asking your indulgence for a plea on behalf of another.”

Cuhelyn stiffened in his seat.

“I knew he was planning something from the moment on he clapped his eyes on us,” he muttered angrily. “And so did Hywel!”

So did, no doubt, Owain Gwynedd himself, for he looked at the Norman bishop with a deceivingly calm countenance but not the least surprised.

“And of whose behalf would your petitioner, my lord bishop, risk to go to you behind my back instead of coming straight to me?” he asked mildly. “Why should he come through you who has no saying about the way my kingdom is ruled, instead of applying to the ruler himself as it is proper and customary?”

Every other Welshman – and most sensible outsiders, too – would have understood the warning in that oh so mild voice. The bishop, however, was either woefully ignorant or deliberately insensitive, for he went on without a pause, and in a condescending manner well-suited to alienate not only the Prince and his nobles but also his own canons and chaplains who, being Welsh themselves, respected the lord of Gwynedd like everyone else.

“My appointment here gives me some right, by virtue of my office, to speak for peace, be it between individual men or between peoples,” he said. “Enmity between brothers is not good for the land or for its people, no matter what outlawry might have caused the onset on either side. Therefore I ask an audience for an envoy on behalf of your brother Cadwaladr, that you may be reconciled with him as is fitting, and restore him to his lost place in your favour. May I admit Bledri ap Rhys?”

The hall fell eerily silent in a heartbeat. Cuhelyn could feel the blood roaring in his ears, his whole body quivered in bitter resentment. How did the Norman bishop _dare_ to interfere with such a deeply Welsh affair, and one that had caused war and bloodshed already? This was an outrageous breach of hospitality and one that had been planned deliberately, not out of mere ignorance. 

There had been no word of warning to the Prince, no previous consultation. Gilbert simply took unfair advantage of Owain’s courtesy which, he knew, the Prince would show towards a host at whose table he was seated.

“How does he _dare_ ,” hissed Cuhelyn, unable to curb his outrage completely. “Even if he had sought this audience in private, it would be deeply offensive for him, a stranger, to meddle with the affairs of our Prince. But doing so in hall, before the entire household… only a Norman, set up in authority he clearly does not deserve, can be insensitive enough to…”

“Watch your tongue,” warned him Canon Morgant sharply from his other side. “Our bishop might not understand our customs well enough yet, but it is not our right to judge him.”

“Not _yours_ , perchance,” returned Cuhelyn, his eyes burning in dark fire, “but very much Owain Gwynedd’s and those loyal to him. You should warn your bishop, Canon Morgant, to bend that stiff Norman neck a little if he wants his office to be a lasting one in Saint Kentigern’s see. The Prince might forgive many things out of love where that honourless brother of his is concerned, but he will not be so forgiving towards those who support Cadwaladr behind his back. Canterbury might have forced Gilbert upon us, but if he does not learn to bend his ways, he will learn that the Welsh do not bear a yoke willingly; and from great heights come long falls.”

Whatever Canon Morgant might have thought about his bishop’s tactic, he clearly felt obliged to defend him.

“You should not threaten the lord bishop, son,” he snapped at the outraged young man.

“I am not your son, Canon Morgant,” replied Cuhelyn coldly. “If I were, your position in the Norman bishop’s chapter would not be as stable as it seems. And I am not threatening your bishop. You would know if I did.”

“Easy, lad,” Brother Cadfael saw the necessity to interfere before unforgivable words could have been spoken, on either side. Let Owain deal with this. He is more than capable of doing so, I believe.”

Cuhelyn calmed down a little because the old monk was right. It was not his place to take offence on Owain’s behalf. Owain was shrewd enough and powerful enough to fight his own battles. A quick glance at the Prince’s unfailingly courteous face showed the right way to go: as displeasing as the bishop’s unwarranted liberty might be, they were not to show any sign of their dismay, just as Owain did not. This, too, was part of the power struggle that had gone on since their arrival.

Owain did, though, let the silence lie before answering; just long enough to allow some doubt whether he would indeed grant the audience to his wayward brother’s envoy, and perhaps to shake the bishop’s arrogant self-assurance. Then he said, clearly and amiably.

“If that is all you ask for, my lord bishop, I will certainly hear Bledri ap Rhys. Every man has the right to ask and be heard, without prejudice to the outcome, and I would not do my host the discourtesy to refuse such a minor pledge.”

The sudden tightening of Gilbert’s face showed that the jab hit true, but he replied nothing beyond a few words of gratitude and sent his steward to bring the petitioner into the hall. 

As soon as _that_ was done, though, it became adamantly clear to all present that the man in question could not have come straight from travel to ask for this audience. Judging by the complete lack of any travel stains on his fine clothes and by the perfect grooming of his black hair, he must have been waiting somewhere within the bishop’s enclave for his host to prepare his entry. His bearing was arrogant and self-assuring, as if he had been sure of the outcome of his mission.

As he was sweeping into the open space fronting the dais with long strides – he was tall for a Welshman, broad-shouldered and powerfully built – he threw the lower seats a fleeting glance… and then Cuhelyn recognised him.

He knew that lean face, made appear even longer by the black moustaches framing that thin mouth, that arrogant beak of a nose, those dark, coldly calculating eyes. This was the man who had led the ambush against Anarawd's small travelling party last autumn. 

The man who had held back, watching dispassionately as his men slaughtered the Prince of Deheubarth and his lightly armed guards.

This was the face that had been burned into Cuhelyn’s memory. A face that finally had a name to go with: Bledri ap Rhys.

Cuhelyn sat stiffly on the old monk’s left, his eyes fixed on his enemy, but their black glance went through and beyond Bledri ap Rhys, back to the place and time when his lord had been cowardly murdered. His face went stark white as he relived those terrible moments, his one hand clutching to the edge of the table as if it were the hilt of his sword, her knuckles standing out like bleached bones.

He could not have moved to speak, even if his life depended on it. 

He felt empty. 

Dead, almost.


	8. Chapter 7 - The Wolf in Sheepskin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In truth, Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr only became Owain’s court poet after 1160, and this story takes place some sixteen years earlier. But I couldn’t resist the temptation to give such a famous bard a cameo. Do forgive me. Hywel’s poem, again, is a genuine item.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – THE WOLF IN SHEEPSKIN**

Sitting on the bishop’s left, Hywel ab Owain was paying little attention to the envoy of his wayward uncle at the moment. His face carefully schooled to reveal nothing of his thoughts or feelings – he did have his father’s formidable composure – he watched his _shield_ from the corner of his eye.

The shield-oath meant that they spent nearly every hour of the day together – save for the occasions when Hywel felt the need to warm his bed with a woman and even then, Cuhelyn would sleep on the floor before his bedchamber to guard him – and so he had come to know his _shadow_ quite well. Therefore he could see now that something had upset Cuhelyn terribly.

As a rule, the young warrior from Deheubarth was a laconic creature. For him to get in this unresponsive state, something of grave importance must have happened. Which meant something that had to do with Anarawd; or rather with Anarawd’s death.

Considering that mere moments earlier Cuhelyn had been talking amiably to the old Welsh monk, Deacon Mark’s travelling companion, it was easy for Hywel’s sharp mind to guess that only two things could have caused such an abrupt change in his _shield_ ’s mood. Either he was offended by the bishop’s behaviour on Owain’s behalf – or, more likely, on the late Anarawd’s behalf – or it had been caused by Cadwaladr’s envoy personally.

Judging by Cuhelyn’s bleak countenance, Hywel would guess that it was the latter.

But what was it about Bledri ap Rhys that would bring the usually unshakable Cuhelyn in such a state? It was unlikely that they would know each other. Bledri was not one of Cadwaladr’s powerful and influential supporters. Hywel himself barely knew him by name and Cuhelyn never mentioned him. Not by name anyway.

 _Not by name_. Keeping his face carefully neutral while listening to the verbal spar between his father and his uncle’s envoy with one ear, Hywel felt cold shivers run down his spine.

 _Not by name_. Six out of Anarawd’s eight assassins had been found early on and were dead by now, only two of them longer afoot: a common warrior executed more recently and a nobleman whom Cuhelyn did _not_ know _by name_. But he carried those faces in his vengeful heart, waiting for the day when he could put names to them – and then extinguish them, forever.

Could it be that the day of reckoning had just come, unexpected and without warning and found Cuhelyn unprepared?

This left Hywel with quite the dilemma. He was not going to allow Bledri ap Rhys to walk away unpunished, but at the moment there was nothing he could do. The time-honoured law of hospitality protected the man while within the bishop’s enclave; and besides, he could not raise any accusations before hearing Cuhelyn’s testimony.

Right now, the only thing he could blame the man for was the defending of Cadwaladr’s despicable deeds – and defend them he did, with such vehemence that it was bordering open disrespect towards the authority of Owain Gwynedd. Hywel wondered if Cadwaladr had sent him on this errand.

Turning more of his attention to the carefully measured verbal blows between his father and his uncle’s envoy, Hywel would have dared to answer that question with a resounding yes, despite the man’s reassurances to the contrary. The main intent of Bledri seemed to be to prove that Cadwaladr had been treated with unnecessary harshness, without being given the chance to better his ways in the future. He seemed to believe that making Cadwaladr and exile in his own country, without a toehold of land that he could call his own, had been an extremely hard punishment.

“It is certainly a lot less extreme than what was done to Anarawd,” replied Hywel’s father coldly. “Lands can be restored, if restoration is deserved. Lives cannot; once they are lost, they are lost for good.”

“True, my lord,” returned Bledri, “but even manslaughter can be compensated by a blood price. And what else is to be stripped of all one’s possessions, and that for life, than another kind of death?”

 _For Cadwaladr certainly_ , thought Hywel with a wry smile that did not show up on his blank face. Without his lands and his wealth he could not bind his followers to his case by generosity any longer, which would mean very soon, no followers at all… save such single, devout fools like young Gwion. And that was the very reason why Hywel felt quite sure that his father would _not_ restore Cadwaladr’s lands. Not yet; perhaps not ever, if the younger prince did not show any genuine regret.

Owain was not, and had never been, adamant against his brother, no matter whatever follies Cadwaladr might have committed. But murder, and one ordered with the express intention that the kingdom would be prevented from forging an all-important alliance, went way beyond what brotherly love could – and would – forgive.

Hywel had no doubt that his father would remain unmoved this time. For Cadwaladr had not only disrespected his authority as the Prince, he had also endangered Gwynedd, weakening the entire kingdom against the Norman conquering attempts by robbing them all of the prospective alliance with Deheubarth; and for _that_ there could be no forgiveness.

“This is no mere manslaughter we are dealing with here as you well know,” said Owain as if he had read his son’s thoughts- “What happened to Anarawd was murder. Cold, pre-meditated murder, designed to destroy the alliance between us and Deheubarth before it could have been fully forged.”

Bledri ap Rhys paled for a moment and Hywel wondered idly whether his father, too had noticed Cuhelyn’s strong reaction to Cadwaladr’s envoy and figured out the rest of the ugly truth on his own. He would not dismiss the possibility off-hand. His father was a shrewd man and a good judge of characters. If he had found out the truth, then Bledri ap Rhys had just been warned… and he had clearly understood the warning.

“ _Murder_ is too harsh a name for a deed done in heat,” he protested indignantly. “Nor did your lordship wait to hear my Prince’s side of the quarrel.”

“There was no need for that,” replied Owain evenly. “You may not know, and neither may your Prince, but we _have_ an eye-witness of the deed, and one whose testimony is above all doubt. Therefore we know that the ambush was a well-planned one, calculated and executed in cold blood. Eight fully armed men do not waylay four unexpecting travellers crossing their land in good faith in hot blood.”

Owain paused, waiting for his brother’s envoy to say something to that but Bledri clearly did not have an answer prepared. He apparently had not known about any survivors.

“And even by those odds,” the Prince of Gwynedd continued, “half of them were slain on the spot and they could not even silence all the witnesses to cover their abominable deed. You do your lord’s case no favour by trying to downplay the dishonourable nature of what he had ordered. You said you came here to plead. My mind is not closed against reconciliation as long as it is civilly sought. You should learn, however, how little effect any threats may have on me.”

“Yet, Owain,” cried Bledri, forgetting even the basest attempts of courtesy in the sudden flare of his temper, “even you would do well if you weighed the possible consequences of your obduracy. A wise man would know when to unbend before his own fire burns back into his face.”

In the shocked silence that followed Hywel shot his _shield_ a quick glance and saw him started out of his stillness, trembling with barely controlled outrage. He was half-rising to his feet already when he caught Hywel watching him. Knowing _that_ obviously helped him to regain control, for he sank back to his place, his expression bleak again, with a barely visible nod of gratitude towards his young lord.

Hywel released a breath he was not even aware he had been holding, grateful for the obedience and self-control of his _shield_. Had Cuhelyn attacked Bledri ap Rhys, things would have turned very ugly, very quickly. Someone would be dead by now – most likely Bledri, for Cuhelyn was more deadly with his one hand than he ever might have been with both.

And then they would never learn what mischief Cadwaladr was planning. _That_ would be most unfortunate.

The other guests took Bledri’s insolence a lot less kindly, however. There was an uneasy stir and angry murmurs at the high table, passing round both Welsh nobles and the clergy; and even louder, more outraged echoes from down the lower table. Bishop Gilbert’s glance jumped anxiously from one place to the other; perchance he was beginning to understand the volatile situation into which his meddling had brought them all.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, the Prince of Gwynedd, unshaken and unshakable as always, needed but a moment to subdue those voices. Hywel could only hope that one day he would learn to radiate the same kind of calm authority. He was born and bread to rule, and had already showed clear signs of his ability to do so, but he was still young and had a lot to learn.

Sometimes he asked himself if he would ever grow large enough, both in body and mind, to be an adequate replacement for his father. Rhun might be the _elding_ and thus would become the Prince of Gwynedd after their father, but his subjects would eat him alive without Hywel standing behind his throne like a rock wall.

Owain, in the meantime, showed nothing but amiable interest for the petitioner’s words. His friendly smile was the most frightening thing Hywel had ever seen, which was saying a lot, considering that he was his father’s warlord and as such well-used to the horrors of battle.

“Am I to take your words as a threat, or a promise or a forecast of doom from heaven?” asked the Prince of Gwynedd with such piercing sweetness that lesser men would have fallen to their knees and beg his forgiveness.

Bledri ap Rhys did no such thing, of course. But even he, arrogant and self-assured though he might be, backed off a step involuntarily – as if trying to avoid a blow – and arranged his countenance into a demure expression. A false one, no doubt, but he was clearly no fool. He had made a mistake losing his calm and he knew it.

“I only meant that enmity and hatred between brothers is unseemly among men and surely must be displeasing to God,” he replied, choosing his words with considerably more caution than before. “It cannot bear but disastrous fruit. I beg you; restore your brother to his rights.”

He was nothing if not insistent and could use that honeyed tongue of his well, Hywel had to give him that. However, he also had the uncomfortable feeling that there was more behind Bledri’s self-assured brazenness than simple arrogance. It seemed to him as if the man knew something no-one else could even guess, and that knowledge gave him an advantage on everyone else. Even Owain.

“We certainly will not; not yet, in any case,” answered Owain, giving his brother’s envoy a measuring look that perchance saw more than Bledri would be willing to show. “However, it might be beneficial for us all if we considered this matter at more leisure. In the next morn I and my court set out for Aber and Bangor, taking with us some of the lord bishop’s household and these visitors from Lichfield. It is in my mind, Bledri ap Rhys, that you should ride with us and be our guest at Aber. Perchance on the way there, or in my _llys_ , you will find a better way to develop your argument, and I will have ample time to consider those consequences you have so eloquently reminded me of. It would not do to invite disaster for want of forethought,” he said in a honeyed tone with barely concealed razor’s edge in it. “I hope you will not refuse my hospitality, which is so freely given.”

Hywel needed all his considerable willpower to suppress the grin that would otherwise have split his face from ear to ear… more so when he saw the bishop breathing through deeply in relief. The Norman might believe that his well-meant (albeit heavy-handed) effort of peace-making had succeeded. Everyone _else_ in hall knew that Bledri ap Rhys had no choice but to accept Owain’s invitation – the true nature of which was well understood by the Prince’s guards.

Bledri himself had understood that as well, if his tight smile was any indication. But he could control his face well enough to plaster a pleased expression all over it as he took his reserved place among the bishop’s guests and raised his drinking horn to the Prince.

Fresh rounds of mead were brought around as they now reached the hour in which entertainment would be required. Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr, Cynddelw the Great Poet, Owain’s _bardd teulu_ stepped forth first He was the poet of the Prince’s retinue and family, which meant that he sang to the warriors before battle as well as to the Princess in private.

There were other, lesser poets in Owain’s court – twenty-four in number, all together, all highly trained professionals, all members of the closely knit bardic order, but Cynddelw was the chief of them, enjoying special status among his fellow poets. One of his privileges was to accompany his lord when Owain rode off to battle… or to any potentially dangerous situations.

He stepped forth now, at the gesture of the Prince. An apprentice handed him his harp, and he sang the greatness and virtues of Owain’s line and then the beauty of the country that was their home, earning great praise for his skills and the beauty of his voice… and rightly so, for only Gwalchmai ab Meilyr the _pencerdd_ , the chief of song in Owain’s court, who stood above all other court poets and occupied a special chair at the Prince’s own table during feasts, could be compared with him.

When he was done and had been aptly praised for his art, Hywel rose from his seat as was his right. While not a member of the bardic order, his talent was acknowledged by the bards of his father’s court and therefore he could sing at feasts whenever he wanted.

Tonight, he wanted it very much, and while most people perchance accepted him to sing about the beauty of the women of Gwynedd, mischief got the better of him, and he chose the _Gorhoffedd_ , knowing that no-one would dare to translate certain words of it for the Norman bishop.

_Caraf trachas Lloegyr, lleudir goglet hediw,  
ac yn amgant y Lliw lliwas callet.  
Caraf am rotes rybuched met,  
myn y dyhaet my meith gwyrysset.  
Carafy theilu ae thew anhet yndi  
ac wrth uot y ri rwyfaw dyhet._ (1)

As he sang, he could see Canon Morgant stiffen in his seat with a thunderous expression and the broad shoulders of the old Welsh monk on Cuhelyn’s other side shake with suppressed laughter.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The excellent music provided by Owain’s _bardd teulu_ and his own son went a long way to dissolve the tensions of the evening into amity and song. Hywel himself – unlike the clueless Norman bishop – was not the least relieved or comforted, though. There were still many things he did not know yet. Things that might turn out as very important; and he was not about to remain in ignorance until it might be too late.

“Come with me,” he said to Cuhelyn when the feast finally ended and the guests began to filter through the faint rectangle of light that was the open door of the bishop’s hall into the moonless, windless night. “I need a word with you.”

Cuhelyn acknowledged his orders with a simple nod. He would have followed Hywel anyway – it was his duty and his privilege as Hywel’s _shield_ to remain on his lord’s side all the time – but Hywel _needing a word_ with him meant that there would be questions. Questions the young prince expected him to answer truthfully.

Cuhelyn had no qualms doing so. Hywel deserved to know the truth.

They walked along the guest quarters, enjoying the freshness of night air after hours in the smoke and heavy odours of the hall. Most visitors had turned in already, and so would Hywel, too, soon enough. They would have to be fresh and rested in the dawn when the Prince’s cortege would muster. But first they needed to speak, and in this mostly abandoned part of the enclave they would have some privacy, at least.

“Tell me,” said Hywel after some companionable silence. “What quarrel do you have with Bledri ap Rhys? I will admit that he is a man who can raise one’s tempers in no time. Yet your dislike of him seems to be older.”

“It is,” agreed Cuhelyn. “Nearly a year older by now, though I did not met him before. Never saw him among Cadwaladr’s chieftains.”

“But you did see him last autumn,” said Hywel without surprise. “When Anarawd was murdered.”

Cuhelyn nodded, his eyes smouldering in the darkness.

“He was leading the ambush,” he said in a low voice. “Always, holding back, never entering the fight himself, save for one short bout. He was the only one who got away unhurt. I could not tell you his name right away, for I never heard it.”

“Yet when he came into Gilbert’s hall tonight, you recognised him,” that was not a question but Cuhelyn nodded again nonetheless.

“In the very moment I saw him, I knew him; how could I not? I se his face every night in my dreams, hovering in the background while my lord is bleeding to death… and I cannot raise my sword to defend him, for my sword, together with my sword-arm, lies across my lord’s body…”

Hywel took a sharp breath. He knew Cuhelyn still had nightmares – it would have been hard not to take notice as they shared sleeping accommodations most of the time – but he never imagined the frequency of them.

“You dream of that each night? Small wonder you sleep so little.”

“I do not need to sleep to dream of it,” Cuhelyn stared into the darkness. “It is enough if I close my eyes. Perchance when they are all dead, I will be free of them.”

Hywel nodded in understanding. Avenging one’s murdered lord was the sacred duty of every Welsh warrior; but in Cuhelyn’s case there was more than just honourable obligations. Cuhelyn had loved Anarawd more than life itself. Anarawd had been the very purpose of his existence, the air he had breathed. Losing his sword-hand had been the smaller one of his losses, and though he had seemed to found his place within the royal household in Gwynedd, there were times Hywel still worried about him.

 _This_ was one of those times.

“You know I cannot allow you to kill him just yet,” he said cautiously. “Not while we still do not know what Cadwaladr is planning. And even then, Father would insist on a proper trial. On his own volition or by force, Bledri _is_ his guest now, and as such under his protection.”

“I know,” replied Cuhelyn simply. “I will wait.”

“You may have to fight Canon Meirion for the privilege of killing him, though,” said Hywel with a sudden grin. “He did not take kindly Bledri’s interest in his daughter.”

“A wise man,” said Cuhelyn. “He would take it even less kindly if he knew who – and _what_ – the man truly is.”

“He cannot; not yet,” warned Hywel. “Beldri must not realise that he has been found out. Do you think he has recognised you, too?”

Cuhelyn thought about that for a moment; then he shook his head.

“No, I do not believe so. People rarely noticed me before… well, _this_ ,” he waved with his maimed arm briefly. “I was Anarawd’s shield, meant to merge with the shadows. Even now that your father told him there had been a survivor, he never wasted a glance in my direction.”

“For the better!” said Hywel contentedly. “That way he remains feeling safe, however mistakenly, until the time arrives to move against him.”

“He likes to abuse the fact that once received, he is safe from any harm or affront,” agreed Cuhelyn. “Few other people would be brazen enough to threaten the Prince of Gwynedd in his face… and passing it off as a reminder of heaven’s displeasure, too!”

“He drew in his horns soon enough, knowing he had gone a step too far,” said Hywel with a shrug. “But whatever mischief might be in the planning, Father has seen to it that Bledri cannot play any part of it. Nor will he get the chance to warn Cadwaladr that we have taken warning and are now on the guard.”

“I doubt that he would have planned to do so,” said Cuhelyn thoughtfully. “It appeared to me as if he had provoked your father’s… _hospitality_ purposely. Think about it: it might suit him to come along with us to Aber, keeping his eyes and ears open for Cadwaladr along the way and within Owain’s _llys_.”

“If he intents on spying, it would do him no good,” replied Hywel. “He would not find a way to send word to his master.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Cuhelyn. “Where there is a will, there is always a way; or will be, sooner or later. But what if he simply wants to keep himself safely out of the struggle between the two princes? He is treated as a guest in your father’s court, even though he is, by all means and purposes, just a prisoner. As a guest, he can come to no harm, whatever the issue. If Cadwaladr wins, he can return to his own lord’s side without reproach. If Owain emerges victorious, he will be just as safe from injury in the battle or reprisals after it.”

Hywel shook his head. “He does not strike me as a cautious man. Such a man would not provoke Canon Meirion’s black ire by fooling around with his daughter.”

“No,” said Cuhelyn dryly. “ _Caution_ is not what leads Bledri ap Rhys. It is blank treason, I suppose. He sought – and found – a way to remain on the side of the winner, no matter what. And under the mantle of hospitality, he can afford such small provocations, knowing he can come to no harm.”

“Do you truly believe he would turn his back on Cadwaladr, after taking part in Anarawd’s murder, in the vague hope of saving his own hide?” asked Hywel doubtfully.

Cuhelyn nodded. “When it truly comes to bloodshed? Yes, I do. A full-scale battle in less predictable than ambushing unexpected travellers; and he knows as well as we do that – unless Cadwaladr should find some very powerful allies on the run – he has no chance against Owain in open battle. Bledri ap Rhys prefers to let others bleed for a shared purpose.”

“So you think he would _not_ try to flee?” Hywel frowned and stared at the open door of the bishop’s hall, where the tall, broad-shouldered shape of a man appeared, backlit by the still glowing fire of the hearth within. His face could not be seen against the light, but his erect carriage revealed him as Bledri ap Rhys.

Cuhelyn followed his lord’s look and shook his head. “He may test the watchfulness of your father’s guard, for sport; but not seriously, no. That would be foolish, and whatever else the man by be, he is certainly no fool.”

They both watched with mild curiosity as Bledri stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the darkness; then he began pacing to and fro on the beaten earth of the court, like someone who wanted to work out the stiffness of his limbs after having sat in one place for far too long. It took them a moment to realise that his seemingly aimless pacing was taking the man closer to the open gate of the precinct by every turn.

“Come on!” Hywel grabbed Cuhelyn’s mutilated arm with the same unforced spontaneity with which he would grab a healthy limb, and Cuhelyn briefly loved him for that. “This I have to see!”

Cuhelyn was very much of the same mind. Whatever Bledri was planning, he needed to keep an eye on him. Prevent him from leaving; by force if he had to.

They treaded their way carefully among the tired servants clearing away the remnants of the feast, falling back so that the object of their interest would not spot them, while Bledri continued his roundabout way to the gate. He did not try to thread softly; maybe deliberately so, his footsteps well audible on the firm ground. When he saw no-one taking notice of him, he abandoned his previous tactic and walked straight towards the open gate…

…only to walk headfirst into two very obviously drunk men before he could reach it. The two had their arm around each other for mutual support, coming from the fields without, and unceremoniously enveloped him as the third party of their inebriated hug.

“Why, my lord Bledri!” exclaimed one of them in the booming voice of a high-spirited drunk who loved everyone after the right amount of mead. “Taking a walk in the night air before going to bed? And a fine night for it, too!”

“We’ll bear you company willingly,” offered the other one, just as heartily. “It would be a shame to lose your way in the dark, with all those people around full of mead. Come with us, we’ll deliver you to your own brychan safely. It would do no good to have a guest of the lord bishop come to any harm.”

“I am not so drunk that I would go astray,” replied Bledri, clearly unconcerned and unsurprised. “You are right, though; it is late, and I will ride with the Prince’s cartege in the morn. I think it will be better for me to go to my bed. Goodnight to you, too!”

With that, he turned to saunter back towards the hall door, still dimly lighted from within. The two guards – now not seeming the least drunk – merged with the night again, their work temporarily done.

“He was not surprised,” commented Cuhelyn, glaring after Bledri’s retreating back.

“No,” agreed Hywel. “I think he expected to be stopped and was merely testing the watchfulness of the guards, just as you have foretold. Now he knows that any attempt to leave would be simply and neatly prevented. He will not make another attempt; not tonight.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Cuhelyn reluctantly. “I would better keep an eye on him tonight, though.”

“No,” said Hywel decisively. “He would stay put for the rest of the night, and so should you. We have a long ride before us tomorrow, and you need to be rested.”

“I am not tired,” protested Cuhelyn, but Hywel silenced him sternly.

“Well, _I am_ , and I intend to retire. Don’t be a fool, Cuhelyn; this particular snake will not go anywhere, not for a while. Come and lie with me!”

Cuhelyn stiffened involuntarily… until he heard his young lord’s soft laughter.

“Not _that_ way, you fool. I said you needed to rest, and rest you will, even if have have to bind you to the bed and sit on you. But it would do you no good to be alone tonight; not after you had to face _him_.”

Cuhelyn relaxed slightly. He should have known that Hywel would not demand _that_ kind of service tonight, not right after he had just found one fo Anarawd’s murderers. He was ashamed of his own reaction.

“Forgive me, my lord…”

“Nonsense,” Hywel leaned in and kissed him on the brow like a brother; never on the mouth with a lover’s kiss - that would remain forever Anarawd’s privilege. “You are shaken; that is understandable. Come now, the night is not getting any younger, and we both need our sleep.”

He herded his _shield_ towards the guest lodgings gently but firmly as he would handle a skittish colt, and Cuhelyn went with him obediently, knowing that Hywel was right. He _needed_ to sleep. And entwined in his lord’s protective arms, perhaps the nightmares would not bother him tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Hywel’s song:
> 
> O England's hate is my love unsleeping, Gwynedd my land,  
> Golden on every hand to the myriad reaping.  
> For her bounty of mead I love her, winter content,  
> Where turbulent wastes of the sea but touch and are spent;  
> I love her people, quiet peace, rich store of her treasure  
> Changed at her prince's pleasure to splendid war.
> 
> "Gorhoffedd" (The Boast), line 3; translation from Robert Gurney Bardic Heritage (London: Chatto & Windus, 1969) p. 39


	9. Chapter 8 - How Sharper Than The Serpent's Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following events are taking place during the ones described in “The Summer of the Danes”. Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the novel for continuity’s sake.
> 
> There’s a bit of disagreement between Ellis Peters and other sources re: the age of Owain’s sons. In the novel, Prince Rhun is supposed to be about fifteen, while Hywel is twenty. According to Wikipedia, however, Rhun is the _elding_ (= firstborn). I went with the Wikipedia version because it provided me with an additional source of conflict.
> 
> The episode title is from the Animated Star Trek series. Sounds weird, I know, but it seemed appropriate. The medieval dishes are taken from the Celtnet website and are genuine items.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTH**

In the next morning, Owain’s cortege gathered at daybreak. When Hywel and Cuhelyn emerged from the young prince’s guest chambers, the courtyard was already full of bustle and sound; grooms whistled, maidservants cried out to each other above the general noise, pack horses were being loaded and words of farewell spoken. 

Where the colourful tent city had stood in the previous night, along the hillside above, there was nothing but the slightly flattened grass, which would rise again in a day or two, wiping away the last traces of their short presence.

It had rained during the night, for there was still some moisture on the grasses, the fine drops shimmering in the ruddy light of the rising Sun like a scattering of diamond dust. The clear, pale blue of the sky, with only a few wisps of cloud to eastward, promised a warm, pleasant day to ride, and Cuhelyn felt his mood lift, just a little.

He _would_ keep a wary eye on Anarawd’s murderer on the road; Bledri would _not_ escape justice for a second time. But they were heading home, and he could not deny that he was looking forward to seeing Aber again. Now that Dinefwr Castle was lost to him forever, Aber was the closest thing he could call home.

He saw the two Benedictine brothers coming from the church where they had, no doubt, spoken their morning prayers before saddling up; old Brother Cadfael calm and complacent, young Deacon Mark gazing with pleasure at the preparations for departure, his face flushed and bright with excitement, like that of a child embarking on an adventure. This was perchance the first time in his life that he would face true perils, but he did not look frightened. Either he had an unshakable faith of God, or he trusted his experienced travelling companion to steer him away from all unnecessary danger.

Owain’s _teulu_ and his noblemen were already marshalling outside the walls of the enclave, their encampment now fully gone. Grooms came, bringing Hywel and Cuhelyn’s horses, and thy swung into saddle eagerly, ready to leave. They rode out of the courtyard slowly, joining the others.

The girl Heledd, Canon Meirion’s daughter, made her appearance at the same time, wrapped in a simple travelling cloak, her eyes demurely downcast and her face schooled in an expression of serene acceptance. Her father kept close on her side, his thick brows frozen in a constant, unhappy frown. On her other side Canon Morgant came, with a cold, forbidding countenance, eyeing both father and daughter with thinly veiled mistrust.

“They are guarding her like two devout watchdogs… or two merciless jailors,” commented Hywel with a faint smile. “I wonder if they will be skilled enough to keep her in such a short leash all the way.

“Hardly,” Cuhelyn snorted. “Her father should trust her, if she has been trustworthy so far; such treatment will only make her resentful, and that is not a good advisor. Look!”

Following his gaze, Hywel saw Bledri ap Rhys step between the two canons smoothly. Before they could have done or said anything, he grabbed the girl around the waist and lifted her into the saddle, effortlessly and with elaborate courtesy. His dark eyes, though, glittered in barely veiled amusement at the darkening frowns of both canons.

The girl accepted his help with a gracious nod of her dark head and a cool reserved smile, part reproach part half-hidden contentment. If the latter was with the courteous service of the nobleman itself or with the act that it would make her guardians unhappy would have been hard to tell. In any case, no-one could have taken exception, either to her behaviour or that of Bledri. They have both preserved the appearance of propriety beyond reproof.

Hywel shook his head in amusement. “She likes to play with fire, that one. Let’s hope she won’t burn herself.”

“Oh, no,” said Cuhelyn. “I do not believe that she would be truly falling for his charms. She has a sharp eye in that pretty head of hers; she would see through his act. She does not strike me as a girl who would be fooled easily.”

“Why is she encouraging him, then?” Hywel wondered.

“She is not,” replied Cuhelyn. “She is punishing his father; and I cannot say that I blame her for _that_. She deserves better.”

“Ieuan ab Ifor is a decent, honourable man,” pointed out Hywel. “She will have a good life; she could do a lot worse. Father knows what he does.”

“That I do not doubt,” answered Cuhelyn. “I do not think it is Ieuan ab Ifor she has a quarrel with. She is bitter about her father wanting to get rid of her so badly, and she has every right to _be_ bitter.”

“Fathers can make their children feel like that,” agreed Hywel. “Even if they only mean the best.”

He was clearly meaning his own father and Owain’s open favouritism towards his _elding_ , even if it was _he_ who counted as the strongest pillar supporting the Prince’s throne. Cuhelyn nodded in agreement and let the topic drop.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Bishop Gilbert came down to the courtyard to speak his farewells to the royal visitors, the rest of his chapter on his heels like a flock of agitated crows. The fact that he had been insensitive enough to invite Cadwaladr’s envoy to the same table and all but forced Owain to listen to the man’s pledge had ruffled quite a few feathers among them, seeing that they were all Welsh and fiercely loyal to their Prince. That Bledri had dared to threaten Owain in his face did not help things, and people blamed the bishop for that, too.

“His lordship seems giddy with relief to see us depart,” remarked Hywel. “I marvel if he realises the danger he had brought upon himself last night. His canons may grumble about his heavy-handed reforms, but in the end they have no other choice than accept them. Interfering with the quarrel of the ruling Prince with his brother, though, and taking the side of the traitor so obviously, is a different matter. It could have ended badly, if not for Father’s forbearance.”

“Your father knows how to pick his battles,” replied Cuhelyn. “Letting a bishop come to harm – and a _Norman_ bishop in a _Welsh_ diocese at that! – would have granted the English with an excuse to fall into our backs. Gilbert can be dealt with later; more so as he has successfully turned the Welsh half of his household against himself. They will be occupied with each other for some time; and that will give _us_ the chance to find out what Cadwaladr is up to and deal with him.”

Hywel gave him a sly look. “You think there is more behind Bledri’s brazen act than trying to get his lord back in Father’s good graces?”

“Oh, there certainly is,” said Cuhelyn. “Or did _that_ sound like a pledge to you?”

“It did not,” admitted Hywel. “But what _was_ it in truth, I marvel.”

“A warning,” said Cuhelyn promptly. “He knows something; something that makes him very certain about his position. Look at him: he is observant, but he does not appear the least worried. And _that_ makes _me_ worry; for I have seen his treacherous nature first-hand.”

Having taken their leave from the bishop, Owain now swung into saddle and rode out of the wide-open gate, heading westward, the entire cortege following his fair, lofty head that gleamed in the morning sun like pure gold. His _teulu_ fell into neat order about him, the nobles of his court and his guests, lining either flank. There were archers among them, too; two of those riding just a few yards behind Bledri ap Rhys, keeping a close eye on him.

As Cuhelyn had observed, Bledri clearly was not concerned about their presence or closeness. He rode nonchalantly with Owain’s guards, changing his positions from time to time; mostly coursing around the canons and their charge, under the guise of speaking words of courtesy in Canon Morgant’s ear, while he very obviously enjoyed the discomfort his closeness caused for the girl’s father. 

Hywel shook his head. “I hope Canon Meirion’s patience will hold till Aber. I would hate to have one of Father’s guests murdered along the way, and by a priest, no less. Even if he would only get what he deserved.”

Cuhelyn nodded in grim agreement. “It would be a shame for Canon Meirion. He might be too eager to give up his daughter so he can keep his position, but slaying such a worthless man in outrage and violating the Prince’s hospitality in the process would destroy him in several different ways. He may have his faults but he does not deserve that.”

“One more reason to keep a close eye on Bledri,” said Hywel.

“Oh, I will,” replied Cuhelyn darkly. “He is mine; I shan’t allow anyone else the satisfaction of killing him.”

There was nothing Hywel could have answered to that, and so they rode on in silence, with a steady, easy pace, across the rolling countryside that was green and lush and lonely, with a few hamlets and cottages and the occasional small church scattered throughout the _tref_. It was a pace they could hold all day, bringing them to the valley of the Conwy before noon. After crossing the river, the ground began to rise steadily, and soon thy turned into the old Roman road that led across the wilderness and towards the sea.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Three whole days the journey to Aber took them, riding leisurely but steadily, until they finally descended to the rim of the salt flats and turned westwards to the terraced hills encircling Aber. The porters and guards at the gates of the royal seat had spotted the banners of their lord from afar, of course, and by the time the cortege rode up to the high stockade of Owain’s _maenol_ , glad cries and the ringing of trumpets welcomed them home. The entire royal household came running to the great courtyard, eager to greet their returning Prince, even though he had not been away but for a couple of weeks.

Grooms came running to take care of the horses. Squires brought pitchers and horns to offer the welcoming drink to the Prince and his guests. As was his wont, Hywel dismounted first, taking the bridle of his father in his usual show of filial respect and handing it to a waiting groom as soon as Owain was out of the saddle. Then he went straight to the hall to kiss the hand of Princess Gwladus who had just come out of the low timber building with her two young sons to welcome her lord home.

Cuhelyn followed him warily. As heartfelt as the manner in which the Princess always treated Hywel might be, he was an obstacle in her own son’s, Iorweth and Maelgwn’s – now ten and seven years of age – way to the throne. Herself the daughter of Llywarch ap Trahaearn, the Prince of Arwystli in Central Wales, she had learned the merciless struggle for power within a royal family at a very young age. Who could be certain that she would not turn on Hywel to secure the overlordship for her sons?

She was strong-willed, sharp-minded and ruthless; every bit Owain’s equal. She had to, if she wanted to prevail on the side of one who was a king in all but name. _And_ she had learned much in Owain’s court; no doubt made her own alliances. Who could tell which way she would use that support once Owain was gone?

Right now, Hywel’s star was rising steadily, due to his victories as his father’s warlord and his fame as a poet, overshadowing even his brother, Owain’s _elding_. But loyalties could shift quickly, and a dowager Princess’s word had a great deal of weight. Which was why Cuhelyn kept a discreet eye on the dealings of Princess Gwladus, whenever they spent time in Aber.

Speaking of the _elding_ … as always, Cuhelyn felt a pang of hurt as he saw Prince Rhun coming out of the hall, tall and radiant and pale, all flashing azure eyes and curly flaxen hair, striding towards his father with easy confidence, utterly certain of his welcome. Owain embraced him with a joyous warmth that could not be overlooked, and Cuhelyn hurt for his young lord, seeing the smile freeze on Hywel’s face. 

It was no secret that Owain loved his _elding_ above all of his numerous other children, but Cuhelyn wished he would make it less obvious… and not only because it broke Hywel’s heart. Princess Gwladus did not, could not see Owain’s clear preference of his _elding_ and remain untouched. He wondered how she – _and_ her sons – will look at Rhun once they were grown.

He apparently was not the only one wondering. He could hear the old Benedictine monk marvel about the same thing; half to himself, half to his young companion. Deacon Mark, on the other hand, obviously was awed by Prince Rhun’s startling golden beauty like most other people and firmly denied even the possibility of anyone hating Owain’s _elding_ , despite the ever-present land-greed among Welsh princes that could all too easily turn brothers into mortal enemies.

Cuhelyn had to smile ruefully in the face of such innocent naïveté.

“I envy your faith, Brother, for it clearly comes from a pure heart,” he said drily. “I fear, though, that I cannot share it. There is no-one who cannot be hated, against whatever odds; nor anyone who cannot be loved, against all reason. And those two are not always easy to keep apart.”

He said the latter thing, for he had just spotted young Gwion, standing a little apart and watching the excitement with a slightly bitter smile. Clearly, the return of Owain concerned him a lot less than the Prince’s household; and perhaps it called up old memories in him. Cherished memories of happier times, about welcoming his own lord home; before Hywel would burn down the castle they had all called home.

Cuhelyn shook his head with a tolerant smile. Gwion might have chosen the wrong prince for his unshakable devotion, but at least he was an honest enemy. One who kept his promises with the same stubborn honour with which he kept faith to his unworthy lord. 

At this vey moment he must have spotted somebody in the returning crowd, tough. Somebody who meant more to him than Owain’s entire court, for he suddenly moved away from his vantage point and pushed through the colourful cavalcade of guards, noblemen clerics and servants, to approach one particular rider who was in the process of dismounting, his eyes bright with hope.

Cuhelyn did not need to guess. There was only one man in Owain’s entourage the sight of whom could awake such excitement in Gwion. Only one whom he, voluntary prisoner of his own honour in Owain’s court, would recognise as an acquantinace. Only one who, too, was Cadwaladr’s man: Bledri ap Rhys.

Cuhelyn watched with detached interest as Gwion touched Bledri’s sleeve. The older man swung around and greeted him with friendliness and almost something akin to warmth before schooling his hawkish face into courteous blankness again.

“Not a very exuberant welcome!” commented old Brother Cadfael drily. “And the young man – I presume it is Gwion, of whom you spoke to me – seems to understand the suggestion.”

“There is no need to pretend they don’t know each other well enough,” replied Cuhelyn. “Not that they could fool any-one here. I am certain that both Owain and Hywel know Cadwaladr’s men much better than I do; they are all of Gwynedd, after all.”

“But why need to make people believe they are on courteous terms at best?” asked the old monk thoughtfully.

Cuhelyn shrugged. “Perhaps they don’t even have to pretend. They may not be closer than two must be who have sworn fealty to the same lord.”

“That might be close enough for mischief,” said the old monk bluntly. As a man of Gwynedd himself, he was clearly concerned about that possibility.

Cuhelyn shook his head. “Not with Gwion. He gave his word not to attempt escape until Owain would release him from captivity, and Owain accepted his word.”

“But has he also pledged himself to give up his alliances beyond that?” asked Brother Cadfael.

“No,” admitted Cuhelyn. “Nor has anyone asked him to do so. Nor would anyone begrudge him the relief of seeing another liege man of his own lord.”

“You believe then that he will keep his word?” asked the old monk.

Cuhelyn nodded. “I do. He is too open and honest for his own good.”

“Bledri ap Rhys did not give his word in the same manner, though,” pointed out Brother Cadfael.

Cuhelyn gave him a mirthless grin. “Nor would I believe him for a heartbeat, even if he did. It matters little, though. The terms of _his_ sojourn with us _I will_ see kept.” 

He shook himsefl briefly, like a dog that had fallen into water, and looked around. Owain and his family were on their way to the hall, with the most important members of the royal household following them at a leisurely pace. Bledri ap Rhys was beign escorted to the guest lodgings by two of the trusted servants who would, no doubt, keep a discreet eye on him until supper. That gave Cuhelyn a little leeway.

“Come with me, Brothers,” he said. “Things seem a little hectic here, so allow me to bring you to your lodgings and show you the chapel. Father Huw, the Prince’s chaplain will doubtlessly make himself known to you later, but until then you can use it whenever you find it empty.”

The two monks thanked him – young Deacon Mark seemed particularly eager to pray the offices that they could not always properly observe during the journey – and followed him. He promised to send someone in time to lead them to the hall for supper, and then went to find Hywel. He had been away from his young lord long enough.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Supper in Owain’s hall was, as always, a lavish affair, with good food, generous amounts of mead and ale and, of course, music, the like of which one would not have found in any other royal count in Wales – or beyond.

The meal began with _Cadwel of Samoun_ – a popular dish of salmon intestines that were parboiled, diced and served in a sauce made from the boiling stock, leeks, almond milk, breadcrumbs and spices coloured with saffron. It was followed by another fish remove, as it was only natural in a place so close to the sea: A _Deuce Egre_ – poached fish, served in a spiced vinegar and honey sauce.

The main course consisted of _Monnchelet_ – a tasty mutton stew with herbs and egg liaison – _and Caudel of Muskels_ , the traditional dish of cooked mussel meats in an almond-milk flavoured with verjuice and white wine and finished with onion, leek, spices and saffron. The predominance of saffron among the spices clearly showed a wealthy household; such rarities were hard to come by and cost more than gold. _Benes y Fryed_ – beans fried in beef stud with butter, enriched with onion and garlic completed this course.

For dessert there was _Chardwardon_ – pears cooked in a sweetened red wine sauce, flavoured with cinnamon and ginger, and a _Potage of Roysons_ , a stew of apple and raisins in almond milk sauce, thickened with rice flour. Aside from the usual mead and ale, for those of refined tastes _Caudell_ was served: saffron-flavoured white wine thickened with egg yolks – a particularly frothy drink usually preferred by ladies and the younger generation.

The entertainment was worthy of the meal itself, provided not only Owain’s _bardd teulu_ , Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr, but also the only one who stood even above him in the royal court and sat at the Prince’s own table during feasts: the _pencerdd_ , or chief of song. His duties, strictly refined by the law codes, included the singing of one song to God, the eternal Lord of all men of this Earth, and the other one to his temporary lord, the Prince, before the gathering of his court and his guests – a privilege envied by all other poets. Owain’s _pencerdd_ was a surprisingly young man named Gwalchmai ab Meilyr – a bard already famous enough for his name to be known in the courts of all Welsh princes, and when he reached for the harp, he proved to everybody that his fame was a well-earned one.

Hywel, of course, did not miss the chance to treat his father’s guests to some impromptu _auld_ about the beauty of Gwynedd and the splendour of its history. And even if his performance would not always follow the strict rules of the bardic order, he made up for that with sheer talent and enthusiasm, leading his audience on an imaginary journey into the mountains inland of Aber and across the pale mirror of the Lavan Sands to the ancient burial place of his royal House, Llanfanes on Anglesey.

Following the verses of Hywel’s _auld_ with one ear, Cuhelyn never took his black, intense glare off Bledri ap Rhys. The man even caught him staring a few times and gave him an ironically arched eyebrow, which Cuhelyn pretended _not_ to notice, keeping his face impassive until Bledri would turn away again.

 _Let him believe that one of Owain’s guards is watching him!_ Cuhelyn moved his maimed arm out of plain sight. It was his only distinctive feature; with it hidden, he looked like any one of the young warriors filling Owain’s court.

He watched with no particular interest Bledri teasing Heledd, who helped serving the mead and returned his teasing lightly, much to Canon Meirion’s obvious dismay. Still, it appeared to Cuhelyn that Bledri would merely use the gesture of admiration and courtship as a guise – and to rise to the reputation he might have earned at Cadwaladr’s court. For the one his eyes sought out again and again was not the girl but young Gwion, unmovable in his absolute loyalty to a worthless prince – and a potential ally for Bledri, should he need one.

He was sitting silently among the young nobles of Owain’s court, some of which he had become reluctant friends with during his honour-bound captivity, his face blank and his eyes guarded. But from time to time he, too, sought out Bledri who was sat at the high table, among the Prince’s personal guests. Once or twice they even exchanged brief, meaningful looks, with the promise of a latter meeting; a more private one where spoken words would be possible.

 _And for what purpose?_ Cuhelyn wondered, for it seemed that the urgency would come entirely from Gwion’s side.

It made sense, though. Gwion had given his word and was now honour-bound to remain in captivity until released. He made no such promise concerning Bledri, though; it was well within his right to help an old ally escape, as Bledri made no promise, either. And Gwion had lived in Aber for a long time, learned a great deal about Owain’s forces and movements, about the most vulnerable spots of the _llys_. He could tell all that knowledge Bledri and help him escape with it to Cadwaladr.

That, too, would be only fair. He had been brutally honest from the beginning, telling Owain flat out that he was wholly and forever Cadwaladr’s man. Perchance the very reason for Bledri’s risky game had been to get to Aber and extract that knowledge from a fellow liege man who was too honourable to break his word and bring it to Cadwaladr himself. He could not fathom that he would be recognised and called upon the murdering of Anarawd.

Yet if that was so, his restraint towards Gwion made no sense at all. Knowing that Owain would look into the murdering of his closest ally and prospective son-in-law Bledri would have all the more reason to escape. Why, then, was he subtly trying to delay a personal meeting with Gwion?

For that was, clearly, what he was doing. Cuhelyn recognised avoidance, no matter how shrewdly disguised, when he saw it. Nay; there was something else brewing. Some hidden design important enough for Bledri to take considerable risks.

Cuhelyn decided to keep an even closer eye on him. Losing a night’s sleep was not such a high price for the safety of Aber. All he could lose were the nightmares.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
For all its opulence, the evening meal winded down fairly early. Princess Gwladus had not dined in the hall with the household to begin with. She and her children stayed in her private rooms all evening. Owain soon joined them himself, having been absent from his family for some time and in need to rebound with them.

“Rhun, you come with me,” he said to his most beloved son who left his peers at the table at once, without complaint and with a brilliant smile. “Hywel, take care of things here for me until our guests choose to retire.”

Hywel bent his knee in filial obedience, his face collected and friendly. Only Cuhelyn could see the hurt disappointment in those bright eyes of his. Stepping into his father’s place as host was an honour; but it did _not_ make up for having been slighted in Rhun’s favour. Again.

The _elding_ , for his credit, must have felt it, too, for he threw his brother an apologetic glance before following their father to the royal chambers.

“Some things never change,” muttered Hywel with just a hint of bitterness while smiling at their guests brightly. Cuhelyn nodded.

“Men are weak,” he replied simply. “Even the greatest of them have their weaknesses that could prove their downfall one day. Do you need me at the moment? Soon people will begin to mingle, making it hard to keep a steady eye upon one man among so many; and I don’t think we can afford losing sight of Bledri ap Rhys tonight.”

“You think he will try to meet Gwion in private?” Hywel had been sitting long enough in council with his father’s nobles to learn how to think with the head of his adversaries.

“I am not certain which is the one with the true desire for such a meeting,” said Cuhelyn. “But in either case, we should not allow them to meet unsupervised.”

“Go,” Hywel waved generously. “I will be safe enough with Father’s faithful vassals; the only guest that can prove dangerous I leave in your care.”

It was not so as if he would be afraid within his father’s _llys_ – or anywhere else, for that matter. Hywel was many things but a coward was not among those. Yet, as the lord of his own lands in Ceredigion, he knew all too well of the ever-present danger of assassination. The fate of Anarawd, older and more powerful than him and beloved by all, had been warning enough. More so with the liegemen of the same prince in Aber who had give the – perchance unspoken – orders to Anarawd’s murder. Having the keen, merciless eye of Cuhelyn on those people was the best protection he could ask for.

Cuhelyn bent his knee before his young lord and moved closer to the door of the hall, melding with the shadows to watch the comings and goings. Now that Owain had retired, people were free to leave their assigned places. Some of them went to speak with friends and allies seated elsewhere at the table. Others stepped out in the fresh air of the late evening, to rest their eyes after hours spent in the smoke of the torches.

There was considerable movement in the hall, the noise of many conversations mingling with laughter, the music of the harpers and the light-hearted banter of the young men at the lower table. In all this, it was not easy to keep an eye on his targets. Nonetheless, Cuhelyn marked the departure of Gwion who had been sitting with the bantering youths without taking any part in their entertainment. He drifted towards the door unassumingly, stealing quick glances at his only ally in this place, as if expecting the man to follow him.

Bledri ap Rhys, however, remained in his modest place near the foot of the high table, seemingly just enjoying his mead. But Cuhelyn did not miss the fact that he was barely drinking. Instead, his observant eye appeared to take in everything that happened around him. As he had never visited Aber before – at least since Cuhelyn had been living here – the impressive strength and strict order of the royal household must have been new for him. And the numbers, discipline and confidence of the young men of Owain’s _teulu_ perchance made him realise that escape from Aber would be even less likely than escape from Bishop Gilbert’s enclave would have been.

 _If_ escape was what he truly had in his mind.

Judging that he would have a better chance to follow the man, should Bledri truly be planning to meet Gwion tonight, Cuhelyn slipped through the door and hid in the shadows outside the hall. It would be only a question of time; and time – and patience – he had aplenty.

And surely enough, he did not need to wait too long. It was still not fully dark, nor very late; the merry jesting and drinking in the hall was still going on and would not end for some time yet. The servants still on duty were going after their usual tasks in the shadowed passages between the buildings of the _maenol_ without haste, approaching the end of a long day that had brought them the delight of Owain’s return.

Amongst all this determined yet unhurried buzz of activity Bledri ap Rhys finally emerged from the hall and turned towards the chapel that, Cuhelyn knew, usually stood empty at this time of the evening – unless the two monks had already commandeered it for their prayers. In the rapidly falling darkness other people might have mistaken him for any of the taller and older men frequenting Owain’s court; but Cuhelyn, in whose very heart his face and stature had been burned since Anarawd’s death, could never make such a mistake. He would recognise Bledri ap Rhys among a thousand men, in the darkest of nights.

But why was the man heading for the chapel? Was perchance his conscience tormenting him, urging him to beg for God’s forgiveness? No; he was not the kind of man who would be given to regret, no matter what he might have done. Then what? Could Gwion have chosen to meet him there, of all places? To prepare Bledri’s escape under the mantle of shared piety?

Well, Cuhelyn was not about to let _that_ happen. He would allow them that meeting, if only to have proof of them plotting against Owain together. He would wait for the meeting to end – and _then_ he would thwart their plans by killing Bledri ap Rhys like the rabid dog that he was.

Having decided on the needful path of action, the last avenger of the murdered Prince of Deheubarth prepared himself to wait.


	10. Chapter 9 - The Darkest Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following events are taking place during the ones described in “The Summer of the Danes”. Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the novel for continuity’s sake.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – IN THE DARKEST HOUR**

Against his expectation, Cuhelyn did not have to wait long for Bledri’s reappearance. Anarawd’s murderer emerged from the chapel again after what could hardly be more than just a quarter of an hour, at the same time as the two Benedictine monks left the hall and headed for the samesome chapel, presumably to pray the office, as it was about the hour of Compline.

Cuhelyn did not attend to the offices himself but knew their appointed times, like everyone else. They regulated the day of laypersons as much as that of the clergy. Besides, the bells were an excellent way to keep track of the passing of time.

Bledri barely missed the two monks by a few yards as he stepped out of the door and turned along the row of lodgings that lined the wall of the ward, right into one of the narrow passages behind the Great Hall. He seemed in no particular haste as he went slowly, perchance even a little wearily to his night’s rest – or so Cuhelyn assumed, as he was clearly heading towards the guest lodging. 

Cuhelyn could not see his face, it was already too dark for _that_ , but he could almost palpably feel the smugness radiating from him. He had doubtlessly met somebody in that chapel; and that somebody had most likely been Gwion. Still, Cuhelyn needed to be absolutely certain. If there were other supporters of Cadwaladr within Owain’s _llys_ , he needed to know. Hywel’s safety might depend on it, and _that_ was not something he would put at risk by being a lash guard.

Therefore he left his enemy go to bed for the time being. He would find Bledri later. Now he would wait for the other conspirator.

Again, he did not have to wait long. Barely had the two monks entered the chapel, its door opened again and out walked a man of roughly Cuhelyn’s own size and, by he briskness of his movements, the same age, too. His face was in shadows, but after seeing him day after day Cuhelyn did not need to see his features to recognise Gwion, as expected.

Well, that was all right, then. No more people from Owain’s court seemed to be included in the little conspiracy of freeing Bledri. Good. Now Cuhelyn could make sure that such a conspiracy would have no choice to succeed.

He glanced across the ward thoughtfully, to the alley into which Bledri had vanished when he came from the chapel. He knew where it led: to one of the many guest lodgings. The one situated between the rear of the Great Hall and the long timber range of the storehouse and the armoury.

Quite a few guest chambers were there, but Cuhelyn knew which one to seek out. He had asked Owain’s steward in the late afternoon where Rhodri ap Rhys would be sleeping overnight, and the steward, knowing that the man had to be watched, told him: in one of the chambers against the north wall, where a range of small rooms had been built in beneath the watch-platform, shadowed deeply by its overhang.

It had been an excellent choice, Cuhelyn admitted, if one did not want the not-so-voluntary guest depart without forewarning. There was only one stairway leading to the platform: a broad, sturdy timber thing, easy to access but also in full view of the main gate. Trying to climb the wall that way would have been foolish; and with climbing alone the deed would not be done yet. One would have to descend on the outer side, too, which would require a long rope and would be different, even so, for the fighting gallery extended outward from the wall, and there was a deep ditch beneath it. Not to mention the risk of getting shot full of arrows like a pincushion while one was trying to get down in one piece.

Yes, it would have been a particularly foolish idea. But desperate people tended to do foolish things, and Cuhelyn could not be certain that Bledri’s nonchalant manners were not mere disguise. Perhaps he _had_ recognised Cuhelyn, after all, and expected to be judged over the death of Anarawd. He must have known that if Owain had waged war upon his own brother because of that – although he was bent to be more than forgiving toward Cadwaladr’s inconsiderable actions as a rule – those who executed the cowardly deed could not help for mercy, either.

It had not merely been murder, though that would be bad enough. It destroyed Gwynedd’s chances for an alliance with Deheubarth, and as such it was seen as treason… and traitors were not treated lightly. Even if he would not be hanged, the best Bledri could count on was the removal of his eyes; for a man like him perchance worse than death.

Therefore if he knew what lay before him, he would try to flee, doubtlessly. If he did _not_ know, he might flee nonetheless, to bring Cadwaladr the knowledge about Owain’s strengths and weaknesses; the knowledge gathered by young Gwion for the last half year and certainly shared with him during that short meeting in the chapel.

That was a risk Cuhelyn could not afford to take.

He knew the third door would be Bledri’s. He laid his hand – his one hand – upon the latch to open it. He would need to be careful, once he had challenged the man; see that he got his hand on his sword quickly. Bledri was taller and stronger and had both hands still. 

It mattered not. Where he lacked a hand, Cuhelyn would make up for it with determination. Bledri ap Rhys would not leave Aber tonight, unless wrapped in a brychan, ready for burial.

He opened the door upon dim light and waited for his eyes to adapt to it after the darkness of the moonless night without, and then peered inside. The room was sparsely furnished, as were all guest lodgings within the _maneol_. Against the rear wall the usual bench bed stood, fitted with a straw mattress and covered with brychans. On a shelf near the bed-head, within easy reach of the guest’s hand, was a small saucer-lamp, burned out but for a faint glimmer of its charred wick, oil running low. 

Beneath the shelf lay a leather saddle-roll, only half-unfolded. A man’s cottee, chausses and shirt was dropped upon it carelessly, as well as the rolled cloak he had not needed on the journey. A pair of well-made riding boots stood in the corner.

And on the bed, naked under the brychans like on the day he was born, lay Bledri ap Rhys, flat on his back, fast asleep. His face was slack, his mouth half open, his breathing long and placid. There he lay, Anarawd’s arrogant murderer, clueless and vulnerable, his life in Cuhelyn’s hand. All that was needed would be a cry or a shake of his shoulder to make him battle for his life.

But would it be fair dealing to startle a man out of his sleep and challenge him to the death? Would it be any different from simply slaughtering him in his bed? Would he, Cuhelyn, be any different from Bledri and his fellow murderers who had slaughtered an unassuming Anarawd, riding across their lands in good faith? Would he do Anarawd any honour if he avenged his death the same despicable way as it had been orchestrated?

Cuhelyn did not know how long had be been standing in the doorway, frozen with indecision, when he heard somebody coming. It sounded like the light pattering of small feet, those of a woman or a child. One of the servants, then, going to his or her bed, now that work in the kitchens had finally been finished.

Grateful for Providence taking the decision out of his hand, Cuhelyn drew Bledri’s door closed and walked away. Halfway down the alley he passed a shaggy dark boy, visibly tired but still bright-eyes, even so late in the night. He recognised him as one of the kitchen servants. Madog… no, Meurig was his name.

The boy greeted him in passing and he returned the greeting, wishing him a good night. Then he returned to the Great Hall.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He found Hywel still awake in their shared chambers. The prince was ready to turn in, wearing only a light robe. He seemed tired.

“You have been gone for a while,” he commented. Cuhelyn nodded.

“I had a lot on my mind,” he replied simply.

Hywel raised an eyebrow. “Like Bledri ap Rhys?”

“Among other things,” said Cuhelyn evasively.

Tomorrow, he would challenge Bledri in front of everyone. He would challenge him, he would fight him, and if Owain gave his countenance, he would kill him. _Then_ he would be free to live out his life as he might.

Hywel must have felt his fey mood for he did not probe any deeper.

“Did he meet with Gwion?” he asked instead. Cuhelyn nodded again.

“In the chapel, about an hour ago. It was a surprisingly short meeting for two of the same allegiance, one of whom had not seen any of his own for half a year.” 

“But long enough to share any knowledge Gwion might have gained here?” asked Hywel, cutting to the core of the problem as was his wont.

“Barely; but yes, it might have been enough,” replied Cuhelyn.

“More so if Gwion had written notes for him,” suggested Hywel.

“True; I did not think of that,” Cuhelyn glanced along the stump of his left arm.

He had not done much writing since the loss of his better hand. He was lettered, sure, could even write with his other hand, albeit not very neatly; not that it mattered. Trying to do better was not worth the effort. He no longer had to write confidential messages for his Prince, as his Prince was dead. 

Murdered. 

Forgotten by most but him.

At least by tomorrow he would be avenged.

“Come to bed,” said Hywel quietly. “You need to rest; and so do I.”

That was true. He needed to rest. He needed his full strength to fight Bledri ap Rhys in the morning. To fight him and to kill him.

With the skill acquired by necessity since last autumn, Cuhelyn shed his cottee and shirt with one hand, helping with his stump as well as he could, while Hywel watched him from hooded eyes. The prince would never humiliate him by helping him undress; that would have been a sign of pity; that he would not trust him to master such a simply task. 

Only when it came to removing the silver bracelet that secured the linen cover over the stump of his maimed arm did the prince step closer to him, carefully and willing to back off if needs must be.

“Allow me…”

Cuhelyn nodded curtly. Ever since the healers had declared his wound healed, he only allowed Hywel to see it. Not that he would be ashamed of it; why would he? It was an honourable injury, the proof that he had been willing to lie down his life for his Prince as every honourable guardsman would. But it was also a deeply personal aspect of his life; one that was not meant to be gaffed at. He would rather appear before the entire court naked than show off his stump.

With feather-light fingers, Hywel removed the silver circlet, laying it on the shelf next to the bed. Then he pulled the linen cloth away, giving the stump a critical glance. This had become something of a recurring ritual between the two of them, so he could tell if the maimed limb was inflamed or irritated in any way. Yes, it _was_ healed – ad much as it could – but there was always need for caution.

“Does it still give you pain?” he asked, ghosting his fingertips over the still new skin. 

It seemed healthy enough today; paler than Cuhelyn’s face, of course, or his remaining hand, and just a touch pink from where the linen had been chafing against it all day. Fortunately, it did not feel warmer than it should be.

Cuhelyn shivered under his touch.

“It is still tender,” he murmured, feeling himself harden from the mixed sensation of caress and mild pain. 

He had learned _not_ to be embarrassed by the reaction of his body; this happened every time Hywel touched his stump. He leaned back against the lean, strong frame of the prince and allowed a ragged sigh that was making his chest ache to escape. Only when alone with Hywel could he afford to be weak; even if only for a moment.

One nimble hand of the prince found its way into his chausses and closed around his aching need with confident familiarity.

“Do you need me to do something about it?” Hywel murmured.

Cuhelyn hesitated. He needed sleep to be strong tomorrow, and love-play always left him exhausted – more an exhaustion of the heart that still missed Anarawd so terribly that it physically hurt than that of the body. But finding temporary release also meant better sleep… and he desperately needed Hywel’s comforting closeness tonight.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he replied, his voice breaking, for it would always be just a substitute, never what it had been with Anarawd, and Hywel knew that and accepted that, and with the small part of his heart that had not died with Anarawd, Cuhelyn loved him for that acceptance.

“Why would I?” there was a smile in Hywel’s voice. “You would do the same for me; have done so many times. Shield-mates, remember?”

“Shield-mates,” agreed Cuhelyn, giving himself up to the tender ministrations of his young lord.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They had been sleeping, deeply and peacefully, when the alarm came.

First, there was a sudden clamour of the main gate of the _maenol_. Even in his sleep, Cuhelyn recognised the muted thudding of hooves, followed by the agitated exchange of voices between the rider and the gate guards and, with the instinctive readiness of one who had been responsible for his lord’s safety all his life, he rolled out of bed, wide awake within a heartbeat, and started putting on his clothes one-handedly in a haste.

Only moments later the murmur of voices rose into loud orders, and the men of the royal household started gathering in the ward, drowsy with interrupted sleep but ready to face whatever might be coming up against them. Owain’s weapons masters had trained them well.

Then the sound of a horn blasting cut through all the agitated noise. Hywel, too, rolled from his brychan onto his feet like a cat, awake and braced for dealing with the situation, should his father need him.

“What happened?” he demanded, putting on his clothes with the quick, practiced moves of a warrior, used to get ready in the shortest time if he had to.

Cuhelyn, struggling with the sleeves of his cottee, shrugged, and suppressed a curse.

“Someone rode in; in a hurry,” he replied. “Only one horseman, from what I could hear.”

“The guards would not rouse the _llys_ for nothing,” Hywel, already dressed, yanked Cuhelyn’s cottee into the right position. “Go and find out what it is. I will be with Father.”

Cuhelyn nodded and hurried off into the ward, at the very moment when the horn blared again, echoes ricocheting between the timber buildings and quickly fading away, swallowed by the wooden walls. But the call had been heard by all that were supposed to hear it, obviously. The young men of Owain’s _teulu_ came hastily, armed and ready to fight any enemy foolish enough to attack the royal seat of their lord. Lamps and candles were kindled in the many lodgings of the _maenol_ , although the servants, too, remembered their training and did not leave their chambers, so that they would not get in the way of the men-at-arms.

Taking a quick look around, Cuhelyn spotted a jaded horse, apparently ridden down by a messenger carrying urgent news, led to the stables. Its rider, a sturdy, dark Welshman in his prime, ignored the many-voiced questions from the crowd, sweeping aside the hands that tried to stop him, all but breaking a path for himself to the Great Hall.

He appeared vaguely familiar, but at the moment Cuhelyn could not remember his name. He was not one of the nobles frequenting the court, but he must have visited it from time to time.

Just when the messenger reached the steps leading up to the Great Hall, the crowd suddenly fell silent. The door above them opened, and out came Owain Gwynedd, still in his bed gown but looking not a tad less commanding than in his festive finery, followed by Hywel on one side and by the squire sent to rouse him with news of the coming on the other one.

“Here I am,” said the Prince, loud and clear and as unshakable as ever. “Who has come wanting me?” 

He came to the edge of the steps, and then the light from within the Hall fell upon the messenger’s face, so that Owain recognised him. “Is that you, Goronwy?”

Now that he had been given a name to put to the face, Cuhelyn knew the man, too. Goronwy up Dewydd was Owain’s trusted man in Bangor; the one to keep an eye on Bishop Meurig and his dealings with Canterbury, but also to help protect the town and its people in times of need, as he was a trained warrior and an excellent strategist. If he came in person all the way, and that at nighttime, too, those times of need had to be very close indeed.

So must have thought Owain as well, for he did not waste any time to question the man.

“What news has brought you from Bangor in such haste?” he asked.

Goronwy bent his knee hurriedly yet respectfully. In haste he might be, but that was no reason to be found lacking manners when in the company of royalty.

“My lord, early this evening a messenger came from Caernarfon,” he replied. “’Tis his word that I have brought here to you as fast as a horse can go. About Vespers ships were sighted westward off Abermenai; a great fleet in war order.”

“What kind of ships?” asked Owain, although the answer was fairly obvious. This would not be the first time that adventurers from the Danish kingdom of Dublin would come to raid Gwynedd; nor would it be the last time.

“The seamen say they are Danish ships from Dublin,” replied Goronwy, as expected. “They came to force your hand, my lord.”

“In what way?” inquired Owain calmly. “Whatever dispute I might have had with the kinfolk of my grandmother, they have long been resolved.”

“That may be so, my lord,” said the messenger darkly. “But it is also said that Cadwaladr, your brother, is with them. That he was the one who brought them over in the first place, hoping that they would avenge and restore him, against your judgement. It seems that the fealty he could not keep for love he has bought with promised gold.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A roar of anger and resentment filled the ward at that news, swelling on like the waves of the angry sea. Welsh princes fighting among each other for power and land was one thing. A sad thing but, unfortunately, one people had grown used to throughout history. But bringing the Danish sea raiders, a common enemy, against one’s own people just to wrestle allowances from one’s lord and brother was an outrageous step few would have been foolish – or desperate – enough to risk. 

The Danes were uncertain allies at best, who served their own purposes before everything else. And once they got truly carried away with the raping and pillaging and bloodshed, they were not easy to call back. Not even upon the promise of gold.

The only person completely unfazed by the news was Owain himself; not that _that_ would surprise Cuhelyn. He had come to know the Prince of Gwynedd as a man with a quick mind and as one who would never allow disorder to turn life within his writ upside down. His _penteulu_ , the captain of his guard and a man of similar disposition, was already at his side, awaiting his orders. They had an understanding between them that went back at least twenty years and no longer needed many words.

“And there is no doubt about this report?” asked Owain, although truly, there could hardly be any.

Goronwy ap Dewydd shook his head tiredly. “None, my lord. The man I have it from saw them himself from the dunes.”

Owain nodded, unsurprised. His men knew their duty and were usually reliable.

“How many ships?” he then asked.

Goronwy shrugged in apology. “They were too far away to be sure. But there is no question where they came from.”

“And small doubt why,” muttered Hywel angrily. “We were told that he had fled to them. Why else would he come back with a force of ruthless sea robbers if not for reckoning?”

“If war is what he wants, I shall give him one,” said his father composedly; then he turned back to the messenger. “How long, would you say, till they come to land?”

“My lord, before morning, for certain,” the man replied. “They were under full sail, and the wind is steady from the west.”

Owain took a deep breath, considering his choices – which were far from ideal at the moment.

“What do you think?” he asked Hywel.

“One of four from all the horses in our stables have been ridden far yesterday, even though not too hard,” his son answered thoughtfully. “And many of the men-at-arms who had travelled with us to Llanewy and back sat in hall late into the night and are still full of mead.”

“The ride that now is before us will be urgent and fast,” added Andras ap Caradog, the _penteulu_ , with an unhappy grimace. 

Riding hard and fast with men still curing a sore head was not a pleasant journey; or a safe one. Owain knew that, too, but he had no other chance than take every able-bodied warrior with him. The Danes were not an enemy that should be underestimated.

“The time is short to rise even half of Gwynedd,” Hywel, who entertained similar thoughts, said in a low voice. His father nodded.

“True. Nonetheless, we shall make sure of the reserves and collect every man available between here and Caernarfon as we go,” he turned to Urien, his head clerk. “I want six couriers. One to go before us now, the others to carry my summons through the rest of Arlechwedd and Arfon. Call them all to Caernarfon. We may not need them, but there is no harm in making certain.”

Urien, a rotund little cleric with a cheerful disposition, received his orders with commendable calm; he had served the Prince since having finished his schooling, after all. With wide gestures as if he would herd poultry, he ushered his clerks to the writing room, and they went with similar composure to prepare the sealed messages the couriers would bear to the chieftains of the two _cantref_ s before the night was over.

Owain then turned back to the ward, to the men-at-arms still awaiting his orders.

“Every man who can bear arms, get to your beds and take what rest you can,” he spoke in a raised voice that carried easily to the farthest corners of the ward. “We muster at first light.”

None of the young men were happy with those orders – they would have preferred to move on at once – but they obeyed nonetheless, dispersing reluctantly under the watchful eye of Andras ap Caradog. Because the Prince had been right, of course. Moving the entire host across country in the dark would have been foolish; not to mention an unnecessary waste of time and strength. It was better to ride in the morning, with both men and beasts rested; that promised better speed and better discipline.

Princess Gwladus, who had as firm a hand over her own household as Owain over his men-at-arms, had sent her ladies and agitated maids back to the deeper recesses of the Great Hall, out of the way of the Prince. Cuhelyn joined the stewards, elder counsellors and the menservants responsible for armoury, stables and stores who would be putting together the supply train following the army. 

He was not needed for the planning of this campaign but Hywel was; and where Hywel went, Cuhelyn followed.

And there Hywel was indeed, quiet and attentive at his father’ side, ready to go wherever he might be needed. A little further away stood Gwion, not part of Owain’s counsels and likely wishing him to fail, but still interested. Cuhelyn even noticed the canons and the Benedictine monks, standing in the ward in considerable distance from each other, yet aware of the danger for Gwynedd and concerned about it, even though, on their way to Bangor, they would not be immediately threatened.

Prince Rhun did not show his face; nor seemed Owain bothered by his absence. Cuhelyn wondered briefly if the _elding_ had taken notice of the dire news at all or was still sleeping peacefully in his chambers. Why would Owain keep him in ignorance? 

Was he afraid that his favourite, the apple of his eye, would insist on riding with them in the morning and get killed in the inevitable battle with the Danes? Or was he afraid that his spoiled _elding_ would embarrass him in a fight? Cuhelyn had seen Rhun spar with his weapons master and knew the older prince was good with the sword – but would that be enough in a true battle?

A quick glance at Hywel’s wry face revealed that the younger prince was likely having similar thoughts.

“So, _this_ was the dire consequence Bledri ap Rhys had warned us about,” Owain finally said. “He must have known what my brother had planned. It was a fair warning, none more honest; I will give him that.”

“It makes no sense, though,” said Einion ab Ithel. “Why give us a warning at all when Cadwaladr was already on his way with his Danes? They cannot be simply called back; even if you would give in and reinstate your brother in his lands, they would demand their price.”

“Cadwaladr still has enough treasure stowed away to pay his Danes if needs must be,” replied Hywel with a shrug. “Perhaps Bledri was his safety rope.”

“Or he is just a traitor to his own lord as well,” muttered Cuhelyn darkly. “Perhaps he saw the strength of our forces and decided to turn his coat.”

“That is a possibility,” agreed Andras ap Caradog. “Shall we question him, my lord?”

Owain shook his head. “No; let him wait his turn, we have other things to do before morning. If he is secure in his bed, he will keep.”

“True; but _is_ he secure in his bed?” asked Tudur ap Rhys. “Or has he perhaps used the excitement to seek a way out of the _maenol_?”

Cuhelyn blanched by that thought. If Bledri managed to get to Cadwaladr, with all he had undoubtedly learned from Gwion about Owain’s strengths and weaknesses, the numbers of his troops and the supply lines, the army might ride straight into a death trap in the morning. He needed to be hunted down!

Before Cuhelyn could have voiced his concern – and volunteered for that task – the head groom came running from the stables, where he and his men had been preparing the horses for Owain’s couriers. He appeared very agitated, which was unusual for him, as he was an even-tempered man as a rule.

“My lord, one of the horses is gone from the stables, and harness and gear with him!” he exclaimed.

Hywel raised his head with a sharp jerk. “Are you sure about that?”

“Sure, my lord,” the man replied. “We checked again, wanted to provide the best steed for your lord father in the morning, and that was when we saw that the horse was missing.”

“What kind of horse is it?”

“A good young roan, my lord, without any white on him,” explained the groom. “Everything belonging to him is gone, too: saddle-cloth, saddle and bridle. Whoever took him had a good eye for horses.”

“What about the horse _he_ ride here?” demanded Hywel sharply. “His own horse that he brought to Llanelwy with him?”

The man gave him a confused look. “Whose horse, my lord?”

“That of Bledri ap Rhys,” supplied Cuhelyn quietly. “A dark grey, dappled lighter down his flanks. Can you remember it? It was still jaded from yesterday. Is it still here?”

The head groom nodded in understanding. “Yes, I know that one; mo match for the roan that was taken. And yes, he is still here. The thief knew how to choose.”

“And meant good speed!” hissed Hywel, his eyes burning with anger. “He’s gone, no doubt. Gone to join Cadwaladr and his Danish mercenaries at Abermenai. How the devil did he ever get out of the gates, and with a horse, no less?”

His father shrugged. “There is no way locking a man in, if he truly wants to get out and is nimble enough to do so. Any wall built my man can be climbed, for a high enough cause. And he did admit openly that he is my brother’s man, to the last degree,” he turned back to the messenger. “Everyone with common sense would keep to the roads in the dark, and Bledri ap Rhys did not strike me as a fool. Did you happen to come across anyone riding west on your way here to us?”

Goronwy ap Dewydd shook his head tiredly. “No, my lord. Not since I crossed the Cegin, and those I met before were our own men whom I have met many times; neither were they in any hurry.”

“He will be far out of reach in no time,” said Hywel through gritted teeth. “We must at least start somebody off on his tracks with your writ, Father. We might be fortunate. A horse can fall lame when ridden hard in the dark. A man can lose his way in a land he does not know well. We may halt him yet, if the pursuer is determined enough.”

“I will go,” offered Cuhelyn simply, his eyes glittering in the dark. “I shall bring him back. Alive, so you can judge him, my lord, if I can. Dead, if he leaves me no other choice.”

Owain gave him a piercing look; then he nodded. “So be it. Take the fastest courier horse left in the stables and hunt him down. He made no promise to stay, that is true. But we cannot allow him to bring his knowledge to my brother,” he turned to the steward who had run to question the men keeping watch on the postern gates of the _llys_. “Well? What did you find?”

“No man was challenged, none passed,” reported the steward. “The men know him by sight, even though he is a stranger. However he broke loose, it was surely not by the gates.”

“I did not think so,” the Prince agreed. “They always kept a thorough watch on the gates. Well, Cuhelyn, be on your way as quickly as you can. Hywel, come to my chambers; we have plans to make,” he looked around briefly, watching his messengers mount. “Gwion, we do not blame you for what happened; nor is any of this your concern. Go to your bed and remember the word you have given to us. You can always take it back, of course,” he added drily, “but in that case you will have to wait under lock and key for our return.”

“I do not go back on my given word,” replied Gwion indignantly. “I gave it and I shall keep it.”

“And I shall trust it as long as you give me no reason to reconsider,” said the Prince. “Go now; there is nothing for you to do here.”

 _Nothing indeed_ , thought Cuhelyn, heading back to Hywel’s chambers to collect his saddlebags and his gear. Gwion had already done what he could do, providing Bledri ap Rhys with all the gathered knowledge about Owain’s movements and forces and defences during that urgent and private meeting in the chapel of the _llys_. 

And why should he not? Gwion had never promised anything except not to escape. Bledri ap Rhys had made no such promise. Nor had Gwion ever pretended to hide his unwavering loyalty to Cadwaladr, regardless what other people might think about the object of such loyalty, deserved or otherwise. 

Could he be blamed if he had helped his unexpected ally to break out and return to his Prince? And after half a year in Aber, he would know every horses that stood in the royal stables; and which one to chose and how to spirit it away for Bledri’s use. After all, he was allowed to move at will within the walls, including even the _tref_ that lay outside the gate.

Cuhelyn shook his head. All this mattered very little at the moment. There would be time later to examine Gwion’s involvement in Bledri’s escape in great detail. Right now, his task was to bring Bledri back. Alive, if possible, to challenge him before the whole court… and kill him. Dead, if the man was foolish enough to resist.

Cuhelyn hoped that Bledri _would_ be foolish enough, underestimating a one-armed opponent. That way, any future efforts to escape justice would be safely thwarted.

He saw Gwion heading back towards the chapel, where he was joined by the two Benedictine brothers. Good. Under the watchful eye of old Brother Cadfael, he would not get the chance to do anything foolish. 

Or so Cuhelyn hoped. He actually liked Gwion, his mirror image in so many things, and would have hated it if the fool got himself killed for some heroic – and useless – act on Cadwaladr’s behalf.

With a conscious effort, Cuhelyn pushed the problem of Gwion to the back of his mind, turning his focus to things that needed his immediate attention.

Packing his gear. Collecting Owain’s writ. Getting a horse.

The hunt was on, and this time he won’t return empty-handed.


	11. Chapter 10 - The War Criers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who followed this story on LJ and FF.Net weren’t any updates for two years between this last chapter. And before that, there had been a three-year-hiatus. The reason of this was that the plot had reached the canon events given in “The Summer of the Danes” – events where Cuhelyn, who is my main character, wasn’t even present, most of the time.
> 
> So, I had two possible solutions here. I could:  
> a) go on with the events of the original novel, rewriting dialogue and descriptions and basically copying Ms Peters’s amazing book on a much lover level, or:  
> b) basically finish the story where it stood then, adding one last chapter in which I summarized what was going to happen next and perhaps a short epilogue in which I described the further fate of the historical characters featuring in this tale.
> 
> After discussing the possibilities with the picowrimo crowd, the most talented and helpful people on this planet, I chose solution b). Perhaps one day in the distant future I may return to this story and work out how to give it a creative and original ending. But until then, I wanted to tie up all the lose threads. Thank you for your patience.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – THE WAR CRIERS**

Cuhelyn never got Prince Owain’s writ to hunt down Bledri ap Rhys – but that wasn’t the fault of either of them. For while he was putting his gear together and Owain was sitting in council with Hywel and his captains, Gwion and the two Benedictine brothers found Bledri dead in the lodging where the Prince’s steward had housed him.

And not merely dead – murdered. Somebody had first felled him, lashing out with a fist in great anger, and then stabbed him while he had been lying there, stunned from his fall.

Prince Owain was _not_ pleased upon learning about this, to say the least. Whether the man might have come to Aber as friend or foe, whatever his true intentions might have been, while there, he had been a guest in Owain’s house and therefore under his protection. The Prince of Gwynedd did not abide his guests being murdered under his very roof.

He promised Gwion, the only one in Aber sharing Bledri’s allegiances, that he would look into the case, even though they were due to muster at daybreak to intercept the intruding Danes. Enquiries were made among the servants who had worked late into the night, to find among them those who had occasion to see either Bledri or any man going or coming late about his door.

Cuhelyn barely heard the two brothers and Gwion give testimony. The blood rushed to his head in black anger, threatening his carefully maintained façade of cold indifference to crumble. Could he lay hand on Bledri’s murderer, he would have slain them in front of Owain’s entire court, without a moment’s delay.

How did they _dare_ to cheat him of his vengeance? Bledri had been his; to unveil the man’s dishonourable role in Anarawd’s death, to challenge him and to slay him in single combat, according to Anarawd’s dying wish. What was he supposed to live for now that the only true reason to do so had been stolen for him?

He found it ironic that when the boy Meurig was questioned and pointed at Cuhelyn as the man whom he had seen leaving Bledri’s quarters in the late hours, suspicion would fall upon him for the very deed he had been robbed of. Even Hywel, who had questioned the boy ere bringing him into his father’s presence, was now looking at his _shield_ with an odd mix of doubt and disappointment.

Of course, knowing what he did, Hywel had more reason to be suspicious than anyone else.

Cuhelyn admitted openly having visited Bledri with the full intention to kill him and why. He also admitted that he had not given up his purpose and would have challenged the man in the next morning; challenged for his mortal offence, called him to battle for his life and, had the Prince given his countenance, killed him.

“Yet you offered us no word of this,” the Prince pointed out quietly. “Why not?”

“Hywel knew,” answered Cuhelyn simply. “I gave him my word that I would not touch the man lest in open combat; not as long as he was in your charge, my lord.”

Hywel gave testimony that it was true and Owain accepted Cuhelyn’s word in the matter. Then they returned to the more pressing issue of the invading Danes. 

The morning muster was planned with precision. Gwion, whom his oath bound to Aber, offered his services to send word to Bledri’s wife in Ceredigion. Everything was prepared to the last detail and order given for the proper provision due to Bishop de Clinton’s envoy on his way to Bangor. For while the Prince’s force would pursue the more direct road to Caernarfon, the brothers Cadfael and Mark would follow the coastal track towards Bangor on their own.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Do you believe me?” demanded Cuhelyn when the two monks had parted was with Owain’s army and he was riding on Hywel’s side, as was his place, towards Caernarfon. “Do you trust my word that, no matter what my purpose had been, I did not murder him?”

 _Him_ being Bledri ap Rhys, of course – it was understood without the need of the name to be mentioned.

Hywel shrugged. “My father believes you,” he said simply.

Cuhelyn gave him a sharp glance. “And you? I could be lying right in your face.”

“Any man may lie, not even for very grave reason,” Hywel allowed. “Even you. But I do not think you would lie to my father. Or to _me_. You have given your second fealty, as absolute as the first. I trust you with my life; why should I not trust you to tell me the truth?”

“I did tell you the truth,” pointed out Cuhelyn. “You have saved me and brought me to an honourable service and used me like a brother – how could I not?”

“True,” Hywel said. “And would that not make _me_ a suspect as well? I had no better reason to love the perpetrators of that ambush than you.”

“Or any man who went with you to drive Cadwaladr out of Ceredigion for Anarawd’s sake,” returned Cuhelyn with a snort. “Or any who took bitter offence at hearing Bledri so insolent on Cadwaladr’s behalf in Bishop Gilbert’s hall that night, spitting his threat in Owain’s face. Truly, one does not often see a man so well-hated; and it was well-deserved, too.”

“His very presence at court was an affront,” Hywel agreed. “And he made no effort to be anything else but hated. Will we ever learn who murdered him, I wonder?”

“Your father will not let it rest,” Cuhelyn said.

“No, he will not; but that means not the truth will come out,” Hywel replied. “We are riding into battle, more likely than not; whoever did it, may fall under a Danish axe and we may never learn the truth.”

That was very true, of course, and now that his first rage had cooled somewhat, Cuhelyn found that he did not truly want Bledri’s murderer to be revealed. Yes, they _had_ cheated him of his revenge and _that_ was still smarting. On the other hand, Bledri _had_ paid, and that was the more important thing.

Besides, the murderer might have spared Cuhelyn a failure. He was a trained warrior but he only had one hand; and not even his better one. Bledri, too, had been a warrior; older and more experienced, and still in possession of both his hands. As much as Cuhelyn _trusted_ that his just case would have led him to victory, he could not be _certain_. Had he failed, Bledri would have got away unpunished. And _that_ would have been worse than simply losing the challenge and being slain by his adversary. _Much_ worse.

Even if it still irked him not being able to execute his revenge personally.

“At least we know who has taken that horse from your father’s stable,” he said after a lengthy silence.

Hywel laughed in amused remembrance.

“Canon Meirion was beside himself when he learned about his daughter’s flight, but who can blame her?” he said. “She would not want to be a nun in England – and why should she, a bonny dark Welsh lass as ever was! – and only said yes to Ieuan ab Ifor to escape that fate. So she took a horse and rode away in the night while everyone else was busy with the preparations for the muster. That required courage. I wonder what happened to her. I hope she is safe.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They learned about Heledd ferch Meirion’s fate sooner than expected. For shortly after Owain’s forces had reached Caernarfon – they had just begun to set up camp – Brother Mark arrived, alone and in a great haste from the direction of Bangor, bringing the news that his older companion and the girl had been captured by the Danes on their way back to Owain’s camp.

Fortunately, the young deacon could also tell them something about the movement of the Danish troops, and Owain decided to bring up his army under the cover of the night and seal off the top of the peninsula where the Danes had chosen to set up their tents. There the two rival armies now stood, facing each other, and it was apparent that one party ort he other would have to make the first step without delay.

Owain, still hoping to avoid bloodshed, chose to open dealings by sending an envoy to the Danish camp – and Brother Mark offered to go on his behalf.

“Tell my brother,” Owain instructed him, “that this quarrel holds between two men only, and all others should hold back from a cause which is not theirs. Tell him that if he has a grievance, he should come and discuss it face to face, in guaranteed safety to come and to return.”

Brother Mark repeated the Prince’s words, just to be certain that he had got them correctly, and off he went.

He must have been very persuasive in the tents of the Danes, for soon after his departure Cadwaladr showed up in person at the abandoned farmstead where Owain had set up his headquarters, a mile from the edge of the Danish camp. There, in the presence of Hywel and Owain’s captains, he set forth the full tale of his grievances. And while at first he did try to damp down his indignation, by the end of his tale he seemed all too ready to make true the threat implied in every word: the threat of open warfare, should his lands not be restored to him.

Owain listened to his tirade in calm indifference. Then he reminded Cadwaladr of his role in Anarawd’s assassination, which had destroyed all hope for a strong alliance between Gwynedd and Dehaubarth; for only a man of Anarawd’s measure could have made such an alliance work. Owain also reminded his brother that it was Cadwaladr who had brought here the Danes of Dublin to force his hand; and that his hand was not so easily forced, not even by a brother. Therefore, he said, it was up to Cadwaladr to get rid of the intruders if he wanted the Prince to even _consider_ giving him back what had been formerly his.

It was certainly not what Cadwaladr had hoped for, but he reined in his high temper – for the time being anyway – and in the next morning he rode back to the Danish camp… with what scheme played out in the back of his mind it was everyone’s guess. Owain’s most stalwart vassals were more than doubtful about his intentions – Hywel above all.

“It is something new for my dear uncle to accept reproof, shoulder the burden laid on him and go back without complaint to do the best he could with it,” he commented dryly.

“You do not believe he has truly changed,” Cuhelyn said. It was not a question but Hywel nodded nonetheless.

“Do _you_?” he asked back.

Cuhelyn shook his head. “No; but I am hardly impartial when it comes to him. Your father may have extracted a price for Anarawd’s death through your hand, but that means not that _I have_ forgotten – or forgiven – on whose behalf my lord was murdered. Neither can I believe that a land-hungry prince who has already betrayed his own people out of greed would change his heart all of a sudden.”

“And rightly so,” Hywel agreed. “I am certain that he believes he can manipulate Father into solving the problem for him again, as he had done so too often in the past. I fear we have not seen the last of him yet.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Hywel’s concerns proved true when, within the hour, Cadwaladr returned to Owain’s camp, stalked into the presence of his brother who was checking the section of the stockade that his engineers were reinforcing, and proudly announced how he had flung defiance at Otir and all his Danes.

How he had told them that he and Owain were resolute to drive them from Welsh soil and that they had best accept their dismissal and spare themselves a bloody encounter.

He went on like this for a while, in an ever-hastening torrent of words; if it was Owain he wanted to convince so desperately or himself, Cuhelyn could not tell. He understood the intent, of course: once again, Cadwaladr was tying to force his brother’s hand by misleading the freebooters he had brought into the game himself. He had obviously believed that now Owain would have no other choice but fight the Danes for him.

 _With_ him. He was willing to do his part, he said. He still had followers, after all, even in Owain’s camp.

Yet he clearly did not know his brother as well as he had thought. For Owain refused to help him betray his agreement with his allies, even though those allies were, strictly seen, the enemy. And the Prince was quietly outraged by the fact that Cadwaladr had not wasted a thought on Brother Mark a willing hostage for his good faith; or on the older monk and the girl who were still captive.

Accepting responsibility for these three – two of whom had been his guests and the girl part of his retinue, even though only temporarily – the Prince of Gwynedd then rode over to the Danish camp in his royal person, alone and unarmed, to negotiate their release for a proper ransom. But not before telling Cadwaladr in no uncertain terms that he was no brother nor ally to him any longer and that he would have to carry his own follies to their deserved end.

Owain returned later in the afternoon, telling his captains that he had come to an agreement with Otir, the leader of the Danes, who would eventually send word about the ransom he would demand for his captives. The two thousand marks Cadwaladr had promised him for this undertaking the Dane intended to extract from his treacherous ally himself.

“We best keep an eye on my dearest uncle,” said Hywel to Cuhelyn drily, “lest he decides to turn his coat again to get himself out from between the rock and the hard place.”

“I shall instruct the patrols to walk by his tent at every round,” Cuhelyn replied. “I find it telling that he would withdraw himself so to the very rim and plant a man of his own on guard. I fancy he is looking for words from his old lands.”

Hywel shrugged. “Father told him to go or stay as he pleases.”

“Yea, but if it pleases him to stay, he may be working on some new mischief,” Cuhelyn warned.

“Some new mischief may well be afoot,” answered Hywel thoughtfully. “But it may be someone else than Cadwaladr working on it. In any case, he is no longer our concern. We must look out for a Danish attack; for this deadlock cannot go on much longer.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Once again, Hywel’s insight proved prophetic – although not quite the way he had expected. There had been no Danish attack during the night. But in the early hours of the morning two men of Cuhelyn’s company – who were making the complete rounds of the southern rim of the encampment – found the remotest gate unguarded and reported it at once to their captain.

Cuhelyn hurried to the gate without delay and, after some searching, they found the missing guard in the bushes, gagged and bound, not far from the fence. To his credit, he had already loosened the cord with which his hands were bound, but not yet enough to free them. Finally released, he reported that a group of Danes had come up from the bay and knocked him out.

Naturally, Cuhelyn suspected some new treachery from Cadwaladr’s side and ordered the searching of the younger prince’s tent at once.

However, the person they found in bed, swaddled in rugs and tied up with ropes like a side of ham was _not_ Cadwaladr. It was Gwion, the last hostage from Ceredigion, who should still have been in Aber, due to his given word… which, apparently, he had just broken.

They took him to Owain for questioning and there he told the Prince how he – after having taken the body of Bledri ap Rhys to his widow for burial – he did not return to Aber but brought a hundred men of his own mind to deliver to Cadwaladr. For old and experienced men who had seen many battles had told him that for all Gwynedd and Wales, the best that could be was that the two princes should be brought together, and together send the Danes empty-handed back to Dublin. But the Danes had taken Cadwaladr from his tent before Gwion could have told him a word about this.

He was devastated when Owain told him that he had no intention to free his brother from his debtors, which meant that Gwion had given up his honour for nothing. He tried to persuade the Prince of Gwynedd to change his mind – and failed. Owain remained unmoved; he did not even extract another promise from the young man. He was not a man who looked kindly on oathbreakers; not even on somebody who had broken his oath out of too immovable a loyalty.

Unbeknownst by Owain and indeed all his captains, Gwion found an unexpected ally in his camp, though: in the person of Ieuan ab Ifor, Owain’s trusted man in Anglesey; the one who was to marry Canon Meirion’s daughter. And while Ieuan summarily blamed Cadwaladr for the captivity of his bride, he was not averse to going against Prince Owain’s orders to free her. For he did not trust the Danes to release her unspoiled; and learning that Gwion was expecting his one hundred armed men to arrive within two days’ time gave him new hope.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It was late in the afternoon when, to everyone’s surprise, Brother Mark returned from the Danish camp, carrying Cadwaladr’s seal and his word that he had agreed to pay the two thousand mark he had promised the Danes and thus buy himself out of debt and bondage. 

At first Gwion refused to believe that his lord would give in to the barbarians’ demand, but in the end he agreed to go with all haste to Llanbadarn; to Rhodri Fychan, who had been Cadwaladr’s steward and knew where his remaining treasury was hidden, to get from him the money and stock to the value of two thousand mark. And thus they set out within the hour, Hywel, Gwion and an escort of ten men-at-arms, well-mounted and with Owain’s writ that bestowed the authority on his son to recruit fresh remounts along the way – just in case.

The next three days dragged on like this. No-one truly expected an attack, now that the issue was all but solved, and that without the need of fighting, and everyone was happy about it.

Well, _almost_ everyone. For Ieuan ab Ifor was still fretting about the safety of his intended bride, and many of the hot-headed young men in Owain’s camp resented the fact that not only should the Danish invaders sail home without losses but even with a considerable profit to show for their incursion. There were even a few who thought that Owain had been wrong to abandon his brother to pay his dues alone. That blood and kinship should come even before honourable oaths.

So they listened to the anguished whispers of Ieuan ab Ifor and were invigorated by the promise of the one hundred armed men Gwion was supposed to bring with him upon his return. A silent conspiracy to attack the Danes before they could load their plunder was going on in Owain’s camp; and the Prince knew not that the peace, for the making of which he had put his own person to risk, was about to be destroyed.

On the fourth day, Ieuan ab Ifor and Gwion attacked the camp of the Danes in the small hours of the morning, unexpectedly and without forewarning. They managed to break through the stockade but did not get too far. In an astonishingly short time, Otir had a formidable ring of steel raised, and then, drawing the circle tight, he bore the much less organized attackers backward, compressed them into the very breach they had made into the stockade, pushing them through it in headless disorder. 

Followed by a number of Danish lances thrown after them, the attackers broke under the pressure and drew off down the sloping dunes towards the shores. They failed to achieve both their primary goals: they could not free Cadwaladr, nor could they get back the silver he had already paid. But Ieuan ab Ifor had, at the very least, rescued his intended bride from the clutches of the Danes, not knowing that she had not truly wanted to be rescued.

Gwion, however, was not ready to give up just yet. He used the moment when everyone was watching Owain watch the Danes load the herd of swart, sturdy cattle that made up the last of Cadwaladr’s ransom, to lead his remaining men to another attack – this time without the support of Ieuan ab Ifor who already had what he wanted, after all. He knew there was no way to Cadwaladr now but over Otir’s body, thus he flung himself straight at the leader of the Danes, regardless of the fact that Otir had twice his weight and three times his experience in arms.

Their struggle raised the bloodlust in Owain’s followers, but the Prince forbade them to interfere, and such was the power of his will and his voice that even Cadwaladr’s former liegemen wavered, falling back from their hand-to-hand struggles, when he ordered them to stand off and get back to their ranks. The battle was over before it would have begun in earnest. Some of the Danes were bloodied but none of them fallen. Of the attackers, two lay limp in the sand, washed over by the waves, and a third one needed the help of his comrades to get back to his feet.

But those two were not the only ones with deadly wounds. For when Owain demanded that the orchestrator of the attack come forth and show himself – not that he wouldn’t have known already who that had been – Gwion climbed waveringly out of the surf, where he had still been struggling to get to Cadwaladr, his head erected proudly, standing fast by what he had done. Yet just as he reached the place where the Prince was waiting, a sudden rivulet of blood stated running from the corners of his mouth and spattered his chest, where a large blot of crimson was already quickly expanding. 

He opened his mouth to speak to the Prince, but not words came out of it, just a great gush of blood. And he fell to his face at the feet of Owain’s horse and moved no more.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After that, things drew to a conclusion rapidly. Owain tolerated the Danes as long as they would load their cattle and sent them on their way with the warning that, should they touch his land uninvited again, he would sweep them back into the sea. Cadwaladr was released according to the agreement unceremoniously – neither kin now foe truly wanted to do anything with him – and had to stalk after his brother, who had already wheeled his horse around to ride back to his own camp, with the ranks of his men closed in orderly march after him, in a cloud of black rage and utter humiliation. 

No-one paid him any attention; him, who had brought upon them all this trouble, out of greed and wounded pride.

Amazingly enough, Gwion was still alive, though Brother Cadfael knew he would not last much longer. He begged Cuhelyn, who had remained with him out of some twisted sense of compassion – for who else could have fully understood Gwion’s stark, destructive loyalty, even if it was given to an unworthy liege lord? – for a last word with Prince Owain. For he had something to confess and little time left to do so.

Cuhelyn went to fetch the Prince, without wasting a moment, and Owain Gwynedd, who always treated his subjects fairly, respected the young man’s dying wish. And there, lying in the nest of thick grass where they had laid him, Gwion confessed that _he_ had been the one who had killed Bledri ap Rhys. 

For he had thought Bledri would be eager to bring word to their liege lord what he, Gwion, had learned during his honour-bound captivity in Aber about the strength of Owain’s forces and their movements – everything Cadwaladr had to know for his defence. He had even taken a horse from the stables before dark; the best he could find, to enable Bledri to escape.

Bledri, however, had not had any intention to escape and put his life at risk in an undertaking that – now he had seen Owain’s power and numbers with his own eyes – he had found questionable at best. And Gwion, in his inflexible loyalty, could not bear such betrayal and struck the man down and killed him. And since he could no longer count on Bledri to warn Cadwaladr, he broke his oath to hurry to his lord himself – and found that he was too late.

He had done murder and sacrificed his honour, the only thing he still had left, for nothing. But at least now that he had confessed to the man whose judgement he most respected, even though he had owed his allegiance to an adversary, he could rest assured of the absolution he most needed: of Owain’s forgiveness. It might not have formally been spoken, but it was freely given and understood by both.

Ieuan ab Ifor was never called to account about his role in the unfortunate events, but he did not get away unpunished, either. For Heledd, who still resented the idea of getting married to a man not of her own choosing so that she would no longer be an embarrassment for her father, used a moment when she was unwatched and eloped with one of the young Danes she had become close with during her captivity. By the time anyone would miss her, she was already aboard one of the Danish ships, far away on the open sea.

“Well, well,” said Owain laughingly when word was brought to him about Heledd’s escape (although he had kept a grave face in Ieuan’s presence. “She now has what she wants and she is where she wants to be, not where others would find it convenient to place her. I wish her all the luck on Earth; and that young Dane, too. He knows not what a strong-headed bride he got himself just yet. They will be a good match – if they don’t kill each other, that is. For us, though, it is time to go home.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“And what will you do, now that Anarawd has finally been avenged, even though not by your own hand?” Hywel asked from Cuhelyn after they had broken down their camp and were now heading back to Aber.

“Bledri ap Rhys has paid for his treachery by one of his own allegiance,” answered Cuhelyn with a shrug. “He betrayed Gwion in a way that was even worse; I am grateful that my hand remained unsullied by his blood, after all. He was not worth being slain by a sword. I feel sorry for Gwion, though. By any measure, his loss was the greatest in this unfortunate mess. Had he not been slain in battle, he would have died of bitter disappointment, I think.”

“Perhaps so,” Hywel allowed. “You have not answered my question, though.”

Cuhelyn gave him a surprised look. “What is there to answer, my lord? I gave you my fealty and I am not taking it back. The shield-oath lasts to the death; I could not break it, even if I wanted. Which I do not. I shall not leave you for any reason, unless you bid me to go. I would be the happier if you would never bid me so, though.”

“Then I shall not,” Hywel said and kissed his brow in benediction as it was proper from liege lord to liegeman.

Then they urged on their horses to catch up with Owain’s guards. It was time to go home indeed, and for Cuhelyn, Gwynedd would be home for the rest of his life.

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@1.07.2015.


	12. Epilogue - Historian's Note

**EPILOGUE – HISTORIAN’S NOTE**

“The Summer of the Danes” by Ellis Peters, the novel upon which this story is based, describes historical events in literary form. 

Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth had indeed intended to marry one of Prince Owain of Gwynedd’s daughters, to form an alliance between the two Welsh kingdoms; an alliance that _might_ have enabled them to hold off the English forces considerably longer.

Owain’s younger brother, Cadwaladr, presumably did not want his brother’s power to grow any greater, and to prevent said alliance, he indeed had Anarawd assassinated in the autumn of 1143, right before the planned wedding. Cuhelyn’s person and his role as the sole survivor of the ambush is book canon. He is not a historical character.

Owain sent his son, Hywel, to drive Cadwaladr out of his lands in Ceredigion and burn down his castle in Llandabarn. Cadwaladr fled to Dublin and in the next summer returned with a small army of Danes to force Owain to reinstall him in his lands. This attempt failed.

The two princes later reconciled, yet only for a short time. In 1147 Hywel and his brother Cynan drove Cadwaladr from his remaining lands in Meirionnydd. A further quarrel with Owain led to Cadwaladr being driven in exile in England.

Owain originally designated his favourite son and _edling_ , Prince Rhun, as his successor. However, Rhun died prematurely in 1147; a fact that plunged Owain into heavy depression, from which he only emerged when an English attack required his attention. 

He then designated Hywel as his successor, but after his death Hywel was first driven out of Wales by Princess Cristina’s sons – he sought refuge by his mother’s family in Ireland – and then killed in the Battle of Pentraeth. The seven sons of his foster father, Cadifor, were killed while defending him in this battle. 

Hywel was one of the greatest poets of his time; eight of his poems have been preserved to the current day. He is know to have sired two sons, Gruffudd and Caswallaeon.

Anarawd was followed on the throne of Deheubarth by his brother Cadell. His son, Einion (ca 1130-1163) did not follow him in his efforts to protect Welsh independence. In fact, Einion aided King Henry II of England in 1158 in taking and destroying all the castles of Ceredigion, gaining much in spoils of war in the process. He was the captain of the king’s body guard and the leader of the procession that raided the castles. He was killed in his sleep by his own steward, Walter Clifford, the father of Rosamund Clifford, one of King Henry II’s mistresses. Apparently, the order to kill him came from Roger de Clare, the 2nd Earl of Hertford.

These details originate from various Wikipedia articles. If you are interested, you can find out more. There is quite a lot to learn. In my imagination, Cuhelyn remained with Hywel to the end and was slain in the Battle of Pentraeth, protecting him.

~The End – this time truly~


End file.
